


Shut Up And Kiss Me

by LadybugsFanfics



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Insults, Mutual Pining, Professor Benedict Cumberbatch, Professor Tom Hiddleston, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, idk - Freeform, im not good at this, professor reader, warning for swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadybugsFanfics/pseuds/LadybugsFanfics
Summary: You and Professor Hiddleston have been colleagues for many years now, and through those years the hatred for each other has only grown. Now, as a new school year starts, you’re being told that you have to share a classroom or a class. Neither are happy about the outcome, but knowing you’ll never come to an agreement, you let the class choose for you. Team-teaching is rare in 2019, but it is a lot harder to do when you can’t stand the person you’re doing it with.
Relationships: Benedict Cumberbatch & Reader, Benedict Cumberbatch & Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch/Sophie Hunter, Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader, Tom Hiddleston & Reader, Tom Hiddleston/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 67





	1. Prologue

Red chairs make up the rows, each row a little higher than the one before. A set of stairs divide it into two parts, with a door at the top. The rows are lined in an oval, every chair turned to the front to see a teacher’s desk, a blackboard and a projector screen. 

_In one room, the teacher leans against his desk, smiling at the fresh students coming into the room. He lets the chatter last. Lets the students feel comfortable. Lets the few who whisper, giggle and watch his way continue for yet another while._

On the blackboard at the front it says _PROFESSOR Y/L/N_ in big block letters. The professor the name belongs to is nowhere to be seen, but the desk is scattered with books, along with two stacks of notebooks. A laptop rests among the mess. In this room, the chatter grows at the sight of mess and no teacher. 

_The professor claps his hands together. He clears his throat and smile at the new faces. “I’m professor Hiddleston,” he says. “Welcome to English literature.”_

“Please sit on chairs.” The voice comes from the back as a young woman enters. The students cease their talk and scramble to chairs. “That’s the number one rule.” She leans against the teacher’s desk and gazes up at the students. “Welcome to history. As you probably already figured, I’m professor Y/L/N.” The professor gestures to the blackboard behind her. 

_Professor Hiddleston scans the room. “Anyone who knows they are in the wrong room, please don’t be shy, and leave now. This is a normal thing.” The room stays quiet until a pair of steps can be heard from the back. The male is out of the room before anyone can register who it is._

As the room quiets down, Professor Y/L/N sighs. She erases her name from the board and writes a one. “You already know this rule. Sit on chairs.” The woman writes a number two and turns back to the students. “Number two,” she says, “is simple. No one talks while I talk. You only talk when I give you permission. You can interrupt by raising a hand, but don’t speak before I’ve called upon you.”

_“That sorted out, let’s start, shall we?” He smiles. “First, some practical information. I will hand you a list of books you can choose from, please choose one you want to read throughout the semester. You will need to borrow this and Hamlet at the university library before the next class.”_

“Number three.” Professor Y/L/N writes a three on the blackboard. “Ask questions. Anything you don’t understand or anywhere you believe I’m wrong, please raise your hand. And in any discourse, you are welcomed to disagree with me.”

_The professor hands a paper to the male closest to him on the first row. It contains a list of books and how to choose. “There will be assignments to what you choose. These are mandatory and will help improve your grade. Though, remember that this is supposed to be both fun and learning.”_

She writes a four and strike a line through it. “There is no fourth rule, simply a suggestion.” The woman walks to the front of the desk. “I hand out assignments. I expect them to be done within a certain time period. In that period, I don’t expect you to hand them in before they are due,” she pauses, “but I do suggest it. I want to help to the best of my abilities and I believe this is how. By handing them in before they are due, I will go over them and return them before the deadline so that you can learn and correct mistakes. It might very well improve your grade.”

_He writes_ fundamental _on the blackboard. His handwriting has the students guessing, but as he says the word it comes clear. “Fundamental. It is fundamental that you know two things. One, that there will be no eating in class. Two, that I like talking and you will hear my voice a lot. That does not mean there isn’t room for yours.”_

“On another topic, I also expect you to ask how to use history in assignments for other classes. Some double major, some have more to do. Use more than one class during more assignments and ask me if you need any help. I have a PhD in History, yes, but also in philosophy, in addition a masters in English.”

_Professor Hiddleston nods at the girl who raises her hand in the air. “Are you going to teach the creative writing course, too?”_

As the professor turns on her laptop and connects it to the projector, she looks up at the students. “Anyone who has, by now, realised they are in the wrong room can leave. Please do so now and not later.” No one stands up. “In that case, let’s begin.”

_He purses his lips. “There is a slightly different note to the course this year. Due to many applicants there are two classes. I will have one of them, and a professor Y/L/N will have the other.”_

–

“You can’t be serious.” Professor Y/L/N throws her hands up. She gives the Dean of English a gaze of annoyance and disbelief. 

Richie McHallan only smiles apologetically. “I am,” he says. “There might be two courses, but we don’t have the room for it. You will have to divide the room or share the course.”

Y/L/N leans back in her chair with a sigh. She gazes over at her coworker. “We don’t get along, Richie, how do you expect it to work?” 

“For once, I agree with her.” Professor Hiddleston looks at McHallan. “Plus, the classes are full, how are we supposed to fit all those students into one classroom?”

The dean sighs. “You will. You’ll show professionalism, and you’ll make agreements with each other, understood?”

The two professors nod, though neither look happy with the decision. 

“Here’s a list of scheduling. The room you’ll have will be there. And here’s a list over the students.” McHallan slides two pieces of paper to each of the professors. Both lists contain a room number, dates and time, and a list of fifteen students each. 

Professor Y/L/N takes the list. “Why can’t I just move the class to the evening? There will be free classrooms.”

The dean shakes his head. “Not possible. There are night time courses here and even then there are few rooms available. Do this or lose the class.”

The woman mutters something under her breath. “Okay, I give up.” She grabs the list and walks out of the room, each step make a sound. So does the door as she rips it open and lets it slam shut. 

Hiddleston chuckles. “I really don’t see the point in this,” he says. 

“Really? You don’t?” The dean scoffs. “You two have never seen eye to eye, but you enjoy it when she’s mad. I need you two to be able to work together. Dr. Grant suggested this actually.”

“Ah, of course.” He nods, a smile caressing his lips. “I’ll be nice, you know I will.”

“Ever the gentleman.” The dean shakes his head. “You’re much too cocky for your own good.”

“Oh, but you do enjoy it.” 

McHallan sighs. “Unfortunately.” He waves a gesture to make the professor leave. “But I enjoy her more than you, so don’t do anything stupid, understood?”

The man only chuckles as he walks out, more than intent on making the most of an otherwise unwanted situation. 


	2. Y/N Y/L/N

> Thomas William Hiddleston  
>  **Creative Writing**

Dear Professor Y/L/N

I am writing to enquire about how to best teach our respective classes. I believe that we should be able to find a solution that will make sure no students feel as if the class does not benefit them because of our disagreements. 

I have three options for you: 

  1. You let me have the whole class and need not be bothered with me for the rest of the semester nor the next
  2. We teach classes at different times
    1. If you see the schedule we were granted you will notice that there are two open slots for the class
    2. It is one hour and fifteen minutes two times a week, making us able to have it every other day the weeks the classroom is available. 
  3. We can teach it together as one collective group, which could lead to the students getting more out of the class



With those options in mind, I hope you will reach out before we both meet today for the first class. This way we can instruct the class on how the semester will continue on from today. 

Sincerely,  
Professor Tom Hiddleston  
020 **** ****  
twhiddleston@*****.co.uk 

> Y/N Y/L/N  
>  **Re: creative writing**

Professor Hiddleston

Your inquiry is well placed. I, too, believe we should figure out a solution that best suits the needs of our students. 

In regards to your options;

    1. I will not give up teaching the class. Despite our disagreements I do enjoy teaching and am in dire need of the money I get from taking on this class

    2. As I understood it, teaching at different times is not an option. 

      1. I checked the open slots for the class and it is not possible to have a different time than the one we will meet today

      2. The room is not available to our use more than the times we were given―I checked

    3. You were worried about our disagreements coming in the way of teaching. In this case, teaching the class as one collective group will be a bigger problem than a solution, at least long hand. 




  
In addition, I would like to add a fourth option you didn’t include

I hope you take your time to figure out what you would be most comfortable with. I’ll be looking forward to hear you let me teach the whole class. 

Y/N Y/L/N  
020 **** ****  
Y/I/Y/L/N@*****.co.uk (First letter of first (and middle) name + last name)

–

The paper feels like a brick in your hand. It weighs down as more students filter in through the doors. You look down at it, scanning over the names. Some you recognize as students taking history or philosophy, but most aren’t familiar. 

Hiddleston has still not appeared and the class is supposed to start in five minutes. You silently hope he doesn’t show, despite the clear answer to your email stating that him not taking the class was not an option―basically he hadn’t answered. 

You lean back against the teacher’s desk and let the paper hang loosely by your side. The room continues to fill, nearing the number of thirty you expect. You count to twenty-eight. 

_Twenty-nine._ Another comes in through the door. _Thirty._ You take a last glance at the door, still no Hiddleston. _Thank Go_ ―

He comes through the door with fast steps. “You have big balls for a woman,” he hisses as he puts down his bag on the teacher’s desk. You raise a brow at him. “Oh, sure,” he says, “you weren’t the one to call and make me go all the way around the building on a detour? You weren’t the one thinking you could make me come late and you could start without me?”

You try to push back a smile by pursing your lips. “Unfortunately, no, that wasn’t me.” The smile treads lightly through. “It almost helped, but I want to win this the right way.”

Hiddleston scoffs. “Win it? This isn’t a competition.” 

“Keep telling yourself that and I already have this in my pocket,” you reply and stop leaning on the desk. “Makes this thing a whole lot easier.”

Before you turn to face the students you notice him roll his eyes. You shake your head, not letting him get to you―at least not at the same level as he usually does. 

You clear your throat, gather the students attention and shoot a last look at your colleague. “Hi, everyone. I’m professor Y/L/N. This is professor Hiddleston.” You point to Hiddleston. “Welcome to creative writing.”

A chorus of chatter spreads through the room. It quickly dies out. 

“Before we start any actual lesson, we would like to go through some information. This is for your benefit and ours.” You look down at the paper still clutched in your hand. “As you may have noticed, we are two teachers and one classroom. In fact, you all are two classes of fifteen and not one of thirty―unless, of course, professor Hiddleston decides to leave it to me.”

The male at your side lets out a huff. 

“Unfortunately, we have not been able to agree upon the best arrangement for the course. I have taken the liberty to decide that you will choose, as the two of us will not be able to come to an agreement. We have three options for you.” You walk around to the blackboard and make a list of three. “One; I teach the class alone and Hiddleston is free to do other needed work in this time instead. Two; we divide the room into two parts where we use one each and teach each class to our own desires. Three―and with this one you should note that professor Hiddleston and I do not enjoy each other’s company―we teach the class together, giving you the possibility to hear both our thoughts. And no, Hiddleston teaching the class alone is not an option.”

Professor Hiddleston sighs as you finish writing the third option on the board. He shakes his head and turns to face the students. You turn back around and see the numerous hands in the air. Hiddleston points to one of them, causing the rest to fall down. 

“Uhh, why can’t there be two classes in two different rooms?” The boy frowns at the two of you. 

“Because there are no available rooms. We both requested the class and it is easier working with a smaller group to better reach each student,” replies Hiddleston. His answer is as vague as McHallan’s when he tried to explain the problem. 

Another hand shoots into the air. You nod at them to speak. “How do we vote?” asks the girl the hand belongs to. 

You gather up a stack of blank papers. “You write your option on this piece of paper. After everyone hands one in we count up what got most votes.” You hand half the stack to Hiddleston, who reluctantly accepts. “Please think through what you would most benefit from and vote with that in mind.”

The stacks are each handed to a student on the first row who passes the blank papers to the next person from row to row. As they all hunch down over the paper, you find a small box you brought where everyone can put their paper. Already, some have decided and meet your eyes to signal it. 

After a few minutes, everyone has handed in their paper. As Hiddleston picks out two students to read the votes―so you both know the choice isn’t altered to one of yours’ liking―you make a table on the blackboard to place the results in. Then, as a boy and a girl walk up to the blackboard and find a piece of chalk, you lean back against the first row desks. 

  1. Professor Y/L/N alone | III
  2. Two classes, one room | IIII III
  3. Both teach one class | IIII IIII IIII I
  4. Professor Hiddleston alone | III



The results stare back at you with a resounding note. Your heart shoots up into your throat, you purse your lips to hide the imminent anger and take a deep breath. _It’ll be fine_ , you tell yourself, _it’ll work out… maybe…_

You meet Hiddleston’s look from across the room. He looks no happier than you. _At least that’s reassuring._ You clap your hands together and turn to the class. The two students who helped sit back down and you give them a smile as they do so. 

“That was… interesting.” Your voice comes off as disappointed as you predicted. “We will grant this wish, though I want to warn you of disagreements that might come from this arrangement.”

Professor Hiddleston nods. “Despite our differences, we will do our best to make this enjoyable and a learning experience for you all. Now that we have that settled, shall we start?”

An agreeable murmur stirs through and you nod with a small sigh. This can become every level of interesting. 

–

“I don’t understand your problem.” Your best friend sits on your kitchen countertop, carelessly stuffing their mouth with food. “You share a class with one of the hottest men I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Not only that, but he’s fucking nice, too.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know him like I do, okay?” you tell her. “He’s a huge asshole. He always thinks he’s better than people and smarter and what not.”

Y/BFF/N scoffs and gives you an amused look. They hop down from the counter and to the fridge. “I don’t know,” they say and pull out a box of grapes “Remember when you first started working there and you met him.” They shut the fridge with their butt and speak with grapes in their mouth. “You told me there was this really hot professor there, prospects for dating and everything, despite clearly saying that dating someone you work with seemed a bad idea.”

“Ha ha, very funny. I did not say that, and if I did, I didn’t know he was a prick yet.” You snatch the box of grapes out their hands. “His personality makes him ugly. I’m sorry but it has something to say.” They snatch the box back as you take out a handful. 

“Sure,” they say, their voice layered with irony. “Just do a one night stand. He’s hot, you need to get laid, maybe it’ll work out the conflict between you two, which has become such an annoyance. You say you don’t like him, but you can’t stop talking about him.”

You ignore their words. It’s clear they have some delusions. In fact, you remember the day you met Hiddleston very clearly.

–

_“Here’s your office.” Dean McHallan unlocked a door into a small room. “You’re wall to wall with the English Literature teacher so you’ll probably meet him soon. Other than that, if you have any more questions feel free to ask.” He handed you the key to the office and slipped out the door._

_The room was small, but not constricting. The far wall was lined with a cabinet consisting of two longer shelved cupboards. The middle was designed more as a bookcase, with some room for pictures as the wall was visible in the middle. In front of the cabinet stood a desk with what looked like a rather uncomfortable office chair. And to the left wall, right under a window staring out at the parking lot, was a couch that actually looked rather comfortable. By the right wall, there was an extra chair._

_You sighed and dropped your backpack on the couch. Despite the rather tacky interior, it was a huge upgrade from your last job._

Knock. Knock.

 _Unpacking_ ― _meaning going to your car and taking with you some of the things you liked to have in your office_ ― _would be saved for later as you turned around and found a tall male in your doorway._

_The male smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You must be the new professor. I saw you walk here with Dean McHallan.” He held out his hand. “I’m Tom Hiddleston, the English Literature professor.”_

_You took his hand and shook it. “Y/N Y/L/N. New history professor, yeah.” You let go of his hand and pursed your lips._

_This was the male that had an office right next to yours. Well, maybe not too bad. He gave a nice vibe, reliable even. Based on his choice of clothing he was rather sophisticated, too. And well, the British Accent helped a lot. But everyone had that, you were in Britain after all._

_“If there’s ever anything you need, I’ll do my best to help.” He pulled away from the doorway. “Welcome and I hope you find yourself at home here.”_

_“Thanks,” you replied and gave him a small smile._

–

During that first year, Hiddleston hadn’t seemed too bad. There was something with him, but it wasn’t until the Christmas party the next year you realized what an asshole he was and ever since, the two of you had had this disagreement going on. 

You shake yourself out of the thought. “Okay, but instead of standing here all day, wanna watch a movie?” you ask. 

Y/BFF/N nods. “Can we watch something Marvel? I’m in a mood,” they ask. 

“Of course,” you reply. “What about Spider Man? Or Black Panther? They’re both on Netflix.”

They smirk and open the fridge again. You frown, and let out an exasperated sigh as they close the fridge with two wine bottles in hand. “Let’s watch both and have some fun. We’re nearing forty and I am in dire need of seeing you drunk before we get there.”

You raise your bows at her. “I’m thirty-five. I got five more years.”

Y/BFF/N sticks their tongue out at you. “Yeah, but I’m thirty-seven so fuck off.” Then their annoyance turns to a smirk. “What about your enemy? He’s not forty yet, is he?”

“I don’t know his exact age, Y/BFF/N, nor do I care.” You roll your eyes and snatch one of the wine bottles out of their hands. “Please, let’s watch some goddamn movies and get a little drunk, and maybe we can find out where _your_ enemy hides the embarrassing photos, videos and more.”

They glare at you. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“What? Did they leak on instagram? Tumblr? Oh, shit that’s on twitter now. Out of my hands.” You shake your head with a that’s-just-how-it-is smile, enhanced with a half shrug and pursed lips slightly tilted upwards to show the joke.

Y/BFF/N shakes their head. “Fuck you. Let’s just start the movie.”

You laugh at them and smile. “Yeah, maybe that’s for the best.”

–

“―and my thoughts are to―”

You rush into the classroom, interrupting the professor you are certain is to blame for your late coming. Everyone’s gaze turns to you, you can feel their eyes on you, but yours are set in one place. 

He frowns as you move towards him, past him and try to calm down. _Don’t shout at him_ , you chant to yourself as you put down your backpack on the teacher’s desk. 

“I’m sorry I’m late, but I had a flat tire,” you say. “Keep going.”

Hiddleston does exactly that and the students turn their attention back to him. As he talks, you tune out his voice and try to figure out how to get revenge. The reason you believe it’s him; the tire was slashed, at campus, before an appointment you had which you would have made on time had it not been for the tire, and because you didn’t make that on time, you didn’t make class on time. 

The man was an idiot. 

“―please take half an hour to discuss with each other and write a paragraph or two.” 

The anger inside you doesn’t subside. You can feel your nostrils flare, feel the rage boil in your veins and the urge to just jump your colleague is not far from taking over. 

Hiddleston comes up at your side. His lips are pursed, though you notice a hint of a smile. “You’re tire was flat?” he asks. 

“Oh, please.” You look at him incredulously. “You had nothing to do with it, is that so? You expect me to believe that?” 

“How could I possibly have done it? You were off campus.” 

_Proof. He knew._

You purse your lips and swallow to keep your voice low. “It was slashed before I left. And yeah, it was slashes. Foul play.”

He scoffs. “And why would I do it?” Hiddleston sounds curious, as if him being petty is something he doesn’t have a reason for―he doesn’t, but you’re pretty sure he believes he has one. 

“Because you didn’t want me to make it. You knew I was off campus. You probably knew I had an important appointment as well, and I believe you did it on purpose to make me come late because that’s the type of idiotic thing you do.” You say it through gritted teeth, no longer masking your anger. 

“You’re delusional, Y/N,” he says. “If you want to make every little detail regarding your life about me, I won’t stop you.” 

You clench your fists. “Every little detail? Because I believe you want to make my life miserable? The thing you have done since I started working here?” An annoyed huff leaves your lips. “Sure, yeah, totally. _I’m obsessed_.”

He takes a step back and turns half way around to face the students. “It’s flattering, I don’t mind,” he says, winks and fully turns around. 

The desire to jump him comes back. You close your eyes and count to ten. Some of the anger fades away, but the need for revenge stays. The need to get him down a notch. The need to ruin his reputation and set a small fire to his career. 

The side of your lips draw up in a smug smile. All you need is a plan. All you need is someone to help you. All you need is to make him taste his own medicine. 

And you know _exactly_ how to do that. 


	3. Tom Hiddleston

“Remember that I’m always available to answer questions.” Tom packs his book into his bag. “Have a lovely weekend.”

As the students rush out of the classroom, Tom notices a shadow leaning against the doorway. He smiles towards it and walks up with light steps. 

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” he asks Benedict. 

The older man rolls his eyes. “You’re babysitting and I had to make sure you actually got out of the classroom this time,” replies Benedict. “You have persistent students.”

Tom chuckles. “I don’t believe anyone has that much to ask after the first week. There are some limits.” They walk out of the lecture hall and continue further down the hall to Tom’s office. 

“Sure, some limits,” replies Benedict. “Like, you supposedly slashing Y/N’s tire?”

“You can’t possibly believe I did that.” Tom shakes his head and as they reach his office door, locks it open and walk in. “No matter what she says, I didn’t do it.”

Benedict smiles. “I know.” The man sits down on Tom’s couch. “What’s going on in that department, though? Team teaching is highly uncommon in this day and age.”

“It happened. Neither are too happy about it, but it’ll have to do.” Tom gathers his things, which is only a coat and a scarf. “Our biggest problem is we have to cooperate outside as well. It is highly annoying to have an email correspondence with someone who is passive aggressive every other sentence.”

That has Benedict laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me, not the least.” He stands up and puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “But, please, if you ever start shouting at each other during one of the classes, make sure I’m contacted somehow, or that someone films it. I would really love to see.” 

Tom rolls his eyes with a slight smile. “Tell that to my students and they’ll gladly do so. Any excuse to use their phone during class. Any excuse to film something hilarious. They are still young, Benedict, of course they’ll comply.”

“They better. I might need blackmail in the future, or possibly just some proof.”

Before Tom can answer, a groan comes from the office next door. Benedict, the ever loving gentleman, walks over to the door of the office and knocks. Tom locks his own and follows his friend. It might turn out to be good TV. 

“Come in.” Y/N’s voice comes as an annoyed sigh. 

Benedict opens the door and reveal the woman sitting on top of her desk looking down at papers scattered on the floor. 

“No further, please.” She looks up at them. “I’m trying to figure this shit out, but it’s a pain in the ass.”

“What is this…?” Benedict gestured to the papers on the floor. 

Y/N hops down from her desk and walks around the mess on the floor. She takes Benedict’s hand and lead him carefully to a place where he can get a good view. Tom stands still, even if he wanted to see what she’s doing, there is now way she will let him. 

“Okay, see this.” She lets go of Ben’s hand and gestures to a part of the mess. “It makes a pattern with this.” She gestures to another part. “And, like, you could say I’m mad for deciding to use my Friday night for some stupid history thing I saw online and decided to try because I can understand it, but honestly, it’s quite exciting what I have figured out.”

Benedict looks up and meets Tom’s gaze. “What exactly is it?” the man asks and diverts his gaze back to Y/N. 

She shrugs. “I’m not sure yet, but it has to do with Norse mythology. Specifically Loki and I find that highly interesting. Plus, if I can figure this out, maybe I can do some research during the year because I miss having something extra. Miss having more than just classes.”

“Then do it. Figure it out and present it to the board.” Benedict gives her a smile and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Any help you need, just ask.”

“Thanks.” Y/N returns the smile. “Now, if you would be so kind as to leave, I might have to order some food and I don’t want anyone to take it.” She looks up and her gaze meets Tom’s.

He lets out a ‘pfft’ and stops leaning in the doorway. “Good luck,” he says and looks over at Benedict, who carefully (read: barely) manages to get out of the small room without screwing up Y/N’s work so far. 

“Have fun, Y/N,” says Benedict as he closes her door. She doesn’t answer, and as Benedict has his back to Tom, he rolls his eyes. 

–

“Uncle Tom,” Kit tugs at Tom’s hand. He looks down at four year old with a smile. “Can we have jelly now?”

Tom ruffles his hair. “Yes.” He stands up and holds out his hand for Kit to take, something the boy does. “Let’s go get some jelly.”

It takes Tom a few moments and each kid (except the baby) as a bowl of strawberry jelly. Kit looks up at Tom before he takes a bite. “Why don’t you eat, too?” he asks. 

“It’s not really my thing. Enjoy it. There is still more if you want when you’re done.” He smiles at the four year old, who nods as if that was a very good idea and then takes a spoonful and eats. Hal, sitting closer to Tom, eats as well but much messier. Nor did he wait to figure out if Tom wanted any. 

Tom smiles. Babysitting has never been the thing he enjoys the most, but he offers if Benedict asks. Though he is relieved the baby is sleeping, and has been since he came. 

He’s dragged out of his thoughts―and the quiet that comes with the kids eating―by the doorbell. Hal doesn’t seem to care but Kit shoots up. The four year old puts down his bowl and spoon and races to the door. Tom chuckles and smiles and follows the boy to the front door. 

“―your father here?” 

He halts at the familiarity of the voice, but continues. In the hallway, Kit stands with the door open, his arms on Y/N’s shoulders as she crouches and smiles at the kid. She looks up as she hears the steps. 

“No, daddy isn’t home.” Kit looks to Tom. “But Uncle Tom is, can you talk to him?” 

Y/N smiles at Kit and stands up. “I don’t think so, but if you want to listen I can talk to you?” The smiles she gives Kit has the kid grin wide-eyed at her and nod. “When’s Benedict coming back?”

Tom’s gaze meets Y/N’s as she asks the question. “Some time tonight. I’m not certain,” he replies. 

“It’s date night then?” She raises a brow. 

Tom nods. “What is it you want?” In front of Kit, he doesn’t want to be hostile to Y/N, but keeping the annoyance out of his voice is harder than he thought it would be. During class, he doesn’t have to think about it as much as the students usually doesn’t hear their annoyed whispers.

“He said if I needed any help I could ask, so here I am.” She gives him a tight smile. “Seems I came at the wrong time.”

Kit takes Y/N’s hand in his. “But, Auntie Y/N, you can talk to me.” The kid beams at her and Tom’s head pushes the words _Auntie Y/N?!_ into the center of his thoughts. “Please, I love your stories.”

Y/N nods. “Of course, kiddo.” She ruffles his hair and takes of her shoes. Kit drags the professor with him into the living room and Tom, reluctantly, pads after. 

In his confusion, he sends a text to Benedict. _Y/N is here. Kit called er Auntie? She says she came to ask you for help_. He doesn’t expect a reply, not soon anyway. And as he sits down again, seeing Y/N with Kit in her lap and Hal having moved to sit by her side, he hopes the baby starts crying so he can get away. The smile on her face as she talks, the genuine love she shows the two boys, and the way both Kit and Hal listen intently as she talks, has his gut churn. 

–

_Must be fun ;) She knows the kids as well as you, Kit started calling her Auntie when he learned to talk. We’ll be home around midnight, hope you behave :)_

Tom sighs at the reply from Benedict. The clock has turned nine thirty. Hal and Kit had fallen asleep on the couch. He and Y/N had taken one of them each and tucked them in. Which was right at the moment when the baby had woken up and started wailing. 

Fortunately for Tom, Y/N is good with children. The baby hasn’t gone back to sleep, but at least he doesn’t have to endure the wailing. They sit in the living room. The TV runs in the background, a small sound and something Tom can keep his gaze on. In a chair by the couch, Y/N sits with the baby in her arms. 

“So,” Y/N looks at Tom who diverts his gaze to her, “since you’re here and alone, you don’t have anyone I’m guessing?”

Tom frowns. “Have someone?” he asks. 

“You know. A girlfriend, wife, _lover_.” She puts an emphasis on the last word and smiles. 

“No, I don’t. And why do you care?” 

She huffs. “Oh, no, just like to know things I can use.” Something tugs at the end of her lips as she looks at him. 

“How do you suspect you can use this? I’m not hiding it.” Tom raises a brow her way and licks his lips. 

She shrugs. “Oh, you know, there are rumors that you’re single, that you’re involved, and that you,” she coughs, “like being available so that more students pick your classes.” 

Tom scoffs. “I don’t do that.” 

She lets out a laugh. “I know. I just like being able to pepper in.” 

“Oh, so that’s what you need Benedict’s help with? Information on me.” He raises his brows. 

She shakes her head. “Oh, no. I need his help with that thing you saw earlier. But, hey, thanks for the idea.” She smiles at him. “Hadn’t figured the best person to ask for help on how to get information was the person himself.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “He won’t tell on me. You will have no more than when you ask.” Unfortunately, he knows Benedict and knows Benedict thrives on their rivalry. 

“You’d be surprised how much he’s already let slip.” She smirks at him. 

“Do tell.” He leans forward. 

“Okay, here goes.” She sits up, changing the position of the baby. “I have many stories of all the plays you’ve been in. You went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and wanted to be an actor but it didn’t pan out and with your intense interest in literature, you decided to pursue that instead. I know you suck at maths.” With a grin, she nods at him. “And I know, and this is the best story of all, that the rumors about you and a younger girl―she was a student but had graduated―dated for a three month period, is true. I also know that is one of the reasons so many girls have hopes that you might actually date them eventually.”

Tom leans back and scoffs. “You’re obsession is showing, Y/N. Maybe time to put your energy elsewhere?” He does not want to admit that it struck a core. Not the dating story, but rather his acting dream. Also, the number of mails he had by the end of a semester with the words _I would like to inform you that I am no longer associated as a student with the university_ where getting old. 

“My obsession is to make your reputation flush down the toilet, and so far, I’m actually succeeding.” Y/N smiles at him and leans back, yet again changing the position of the baby. “If only you knew how well this shared class thing will work for me at length, you would be scared.” 

He gives her a sure-that-seems-true smile. _God, the woman knows how to get on someone’s nerves._

–

The moment they hear the front door open, Y/N shoots out of her seat and hurriedly walks to the hallway. Tom turns off the TV and follows after, only to be rushed past again by Y/N dragging Benedict after her. 

He finds Sophie alone in the hallway, taking of a pair of high heels. “How was the evening?” he asks and holds out a hand for her to lean on. 

She takes it and smiles at him. “It was lovely. How have the kids treated you?” She chuckles. “How has Y/N treated you?”

“They were no problem. Fell asleep easily even,” he replies. “Y/N on the other hand was not easy. She did not want to leave without talking to Benedict and I don’t know why.”

Sophie shakes her head with a smile and lets go of his hand. “I still don’t understand what this thing is going on with you two. When did it start?”

“About a year after she started working there. Second Christmas Party. I have to admit I don’t remember exactly why she got mad, but I remember her getting mad and it continuing on. It turned into whatever this is.” Tom sighs, knowing exactly what he did and that Y/N’s anger is misdirected. 

“Oh, yeah. I don’t think I remember that party too well.” Sophie nods. “It’s a few years ago now, many other things have happened since then.” 

Tom nods in agreement. “Anyways, it’s late and I have a dog to walk before I get to bed. Say bye to Ben for me, will you?” He gives her a kiss on the cheek which she returns. 

“I will. Take care and say hi to Bobby from me,” she says with a smile. 

“I will.” He puts on his shoes and coat, and grabs his scarf. “Bye,” he says, smiles and slips out of the door and into the chill September evening. 

–

> Letitia Wright  
>  **Creative Writing weekly story**

Hi, professor Hiddleston

About the weekly short story we are writing. I can’t really think of anything to write about. I know it’s late, but I thought you would be good help. So far I have one word, which is _I_. 

Help is much appreciated. I would very much like some ideas on how to get ideas. Thank you in advance. 

Best regards,  
Letitia Wright

P.S. Have a good weekend!

Tom makes a mental note to answer the mail in the morning. He makes a reminder on his phone as well, just in case, and puts it down on the nightstand. The whole day had given him a headache and he was ready for a weekend where he could relax. 

He ruffles Bobby’s head, who sleeps down by his feet, and turns of the nightstand lamp. The room turns dark and Tom tucks himself under the duvet. He closes his eyes with the need for sleep, but it doesn’t come.

In the end, he gets up and out of bed. He finds a glass in the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. A yawn escapes as he leans against the counter, but despite it, he doesn’t really feel tired. 

He finishes the glass of water and, instead of going back to bed, replies to Ms. Wright’s email. As he hits send, he sees he has a new one. Only a glance at the sender’s name has him see it says Y/N Y/L/N. 

With a sigh, he clicks it. 

> Y/N Y/L/N  
>  **Tuesday’s class**

Hiddleston

I would like to speak to you about the next class. I would like us to be better prepared and have discussed what we want out of the seventy five minutes we have. 

Some suggestions;

  1. We could have a little grammar session or something that helps knowing when a sentence flows or not
  2. A brainstorming activity to help get the weekly stories afloat
  3. You tell them you’ll leave the class to me and I go ahead and do the thing I want to do, which is have them use each other (two and two) to write a dialogue scene. First just the dialogue and then the rest follows. And then later discuss how that differentiates from when one person writes everything, both with flow and subject area. 



Don’t expect you to reply right away, and you are allowed to think about it. Please let me know by Monday morning. 

Y/N Y/LN  
020 **** ****  
Y/I/Y/L/N@*****.co.uk 

P.S. You have a dog?

Tom rolls his eyes and turns of his laptop. With that annoyance, he finds himself more tired. This time, as he tucks into his duvet and closes his eyes, he’s out like a light. 


	4. Y/N Y/L/N

You lean back in your chair, hands warmed by a cup of hot chocolate that tastes of heaven as you sip it. 

Across the room, Hiddleston is approached by Alisha Grant. The head of HR owes you a favor and now you get to see her do the little thing you’d asked of her the night before.The English Literature professor frowns at her words, pulls back in confusion and purses his lips with what you can only read as anxiousness. His feet start tapping against the floor and he pushes his glasses up his nose with his pointer finger.

Dr. Grant smiles at him, turns and leaves, walking towards you. She stops in front of the table you occupy. “Happy?” she asks.

You nod with a beaming smile. “Of course. Now he’s anxious and the rest of part one will be easy.” 

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I put you two in the same classroom so you’d become more capable of behaving in each other’s presence, yet here you are, making me do something that helps with the exact opposite.” 

“And you love me for it,” you say and sip your hot chocolate with a smug smile. “You find our rivalry as cute as Benedict. God, I was at his place on Friday to talk to him about this research thing I’m doing and he couldn’t talk about anything but our feud.”

“Oh, because you can.” Alisha rolls her eyes again. “Anyways, I’ve done as you asked and now you’ll have to excuse me, I have a lunch to attend.”

“Sure, don’t eat with me. I’m not all alone and bored to death,” you say sarcastically. 

Alisha shakes her head, though with an amused smile tugging at her lips. “You’ll have to ask someone else then. Bye.” She gives a little wave and walks away, still shaking her head. 

As she leaves, a rather angry professor marches up to you. Hiddleston’s brows are knitted together and his eyes stare daggers at you. You only smile innocently at him, fully enjoying the moment. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his accent more pronounced with the anger in his voice. 

You shrug. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Just out here bullshitting my way through life.” You sip your hot chocolate, smiling smugly behind the mug.

“No, you had something to do with Dr. Grant approaching me.” He sits down in the chair across from yours. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing,” you say, which, in all honesty, is the truth. “We’re friends, okay? I’m sorry she isn’t yours. Jealousy isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but remember to tone it down a little maybe?.”

The neck in his veins bulges out, blue shading the fair color of his skin, and threatening to explode. You purse your lips, though the lower trembles a little and tears starts to form in your eyes. Suppressing a laugh is harder than you thought. 

“Oh, shut up,” he says and stands. “Don’t believe I don’t know what you’re doing.” 

Watching him madly stalk away makes its way to the top ten things everyone should experience in life. You have never seen something as beautiful (to be honest, his little ass isn’t that bad). 

—

“You’re an idiot, do you know that?” Hiddleston hisses at you. 

“Excuse me?” You stare at him. “ _I’m_ the idiot? Have you met yourself?” 

He clenches his fists, opens his mouth, and decides against it. Hiddleston takes a glance up at the thirty students writing away at their computers and chatting with each other. You scoff. If you knew all it would take for him to shut up was to have students in the room, you’d have proposed this idea to Dean McHallan years ago. 

The professor takes a step closer to you, close enough for you to hear his heartbeat and feel his breath mix with yours. “I’m not sure exactly what you have as a brain, but I can assure you, it is no bigger than a nut,” he says, venom laced in his voice. 

“And I can assure you, it still contains more information than the _bloated_ one you have.” 

—

The papers spread out on your office floor make less sense now than they did when you first put them down. Instead of being a fun research project as you hoped, it gives you a massive headache. Nevertheless, you had gotten some very nice ideas for classes. 

Your sophomore class had taken a liking to the idea of researching norse mythology in a new way. Reading some of the myths had turned into a great laughing session and been turned into an assignment to study as relics and reports, a great way to learn how to assess a source. 

And for the creative writing class on Thursday―you have yet to propose this to Hiddleston―you have an idea to use allusions to pepper in nuance to a story. 

But for the moment, as your mind is blank and a pikachu and a bulbasaur pops up, you’re pretty sure the last two all nighters weren’t a good idea. Or maybe you’re playing Pokemon Go with your mind (who knows?). 

You startle to a knock on your office door. “Come in,” you say and try to shake away the two pokemon in front of you as you regain your balance. It only works halfway and the person who opens the door steps on them as he comes inside. Actually, it might be that shot or two (shh, it wasn’t more) of vodka you took to brainstorm that does this. 

“Why aren’t you going home?” Benedict sighs and gives you a worried look. 

You shrug. “Beats me. I _really_ should,” you say and nod aggressively, with a grimace saying ‘you’re-right’. 

Benedict tilts his head. “Are you drunk?” he asks and takes a step further into the room. 

“Noooo,” you say and hop down from your desk. You land on the mess of papers, mixing up their positions. “I would never.” You furiously shake your head no and then slowly go over to nodding. “Actually, now that I think about it. I might be?” 

“Okay, come here. I’m driving you home.” He holds out a hand for you to take. 

You accept it and smile at him. “You’re such a good friend.” Your nose scrunches as you coo at him and smile wider, showing teeth. 

He nods with a smile. “I know I am. You have your things?” 

You let go of his hand and turn around to find your backpack. “Ready,” you say, only to go and get your jacket. You stop mid track and your eyes widen. “Oh, oh, oh.” You scramble to your desk and find a pen and paper, and write down the idea that popped into your head. 

“Y/N,” says Benedict, his voice soft, “we should leave.” 

You wave at him. “Uno momento,” you say in broken Spanish and finish the sentence. You squeal at the amazing idea and scramble for your coat, putting the note in the pocket. “Ready!”

Benedict shakes his head, though he smiles and follows you out. He locks your office for you and takes your car keys. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, too, don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t,” you say and hug him from the side. “You’re the best. Not like _Tom_. He’s the worst.”

You hear the physics professor sigh, but he doesn’t comment on it as you slowly begin to talk about the English Lit professor. He doesn’t mention it as you talk about the man’s personality, nor does he mention it when the words, “he has no business being _that_ hot,” slips out and you let out a heavy sigh. 

—

You groan as you get into the passenger seat of Benedict’s car. “You have no idea how much my head hurts,” you say and stare at him through a pair of sunglasses. 

“Then you shouldn’t drink and work.” He rolls his eyes, but you notice the smile playing on his lips. “What made you believe that was a good idea?”

“Uhh, I believe it was the all-nighters. After all, when you came into the room I saw pokemon.” You groan at the hazy memory. “Fuck, that’s usually not even a consquence of alcohol.” 

Benedict takes a turn out of your neighborhood. “No, but it is a symptom of sleep deprivation. You should take better care of yourself.” He casts a quick glance your way with a worried smile, and then puts his attention back on the road. “What more do you remember?”

You shrug. “Uhh, you helping me. Getting my things.” You scrunch your face to rack your brain for the hazy moments of last night, but not much more comes to mind. “Did I do something stupid?”

A chuckle comes from Benedict. “Be glad I was the one to find you,” he says. “You didn’t do anything stupid until after, though. But I remember you having some bright idea? Care to indulge?”

“Bright idea?” you ask. 

“Yeah, you were about to get your jacket when you had some realization and wrote something down.”

“Oh,” you say. You check your jacket pockets, and true enough, there’s a post-it note inside it. You unfold the note and try to decipher the scrambled words. _talk to tom about class. (remember don’t mention your crush shhhh)_

You nod, curl the paper and put it back into your pocket. “It was not a good idea and really you should never trust drunk people to have good ideas.” 

Benedict laughs and you sit back in silence. You press your lips together as your mind races through the few things you said as Benedict helped you home. Biting your lip, you can’t remember anything that will alert your friend to something you don’t want him to know. Nor did he see the note, so you should be good. 

Still, during the next few minutes before Benedict pulls up to campus, your heart beats unsteadily. Your head throbs and your gut churns at the stupid admittance from your drunk and sleep deprived self. The knowledge that said secret is about the person you allegedly hate, that gives you countless headaches throughout the day, and that you’re teaching a class with in a few hours, has your head spin and your throat go dry.

 _Yup, sure, looking forward to it_. 

—

“Professor Y/L/N.”

You turn around to the small smile of one of your students. Mr. Holland purses his lips, his grip on a piece of paper turning his knuckles white. “What can I help you with?” you ask him, returning his kind, albeit nervous, smile. 

He looks down. “I was wondering if you could, uh, read over this story I wrote.” He hands you the paper and carefully looks up at you. “You don’t have to, really, I just… I have you in both history and this and you said to use classes to ease the workload, and well, I have this story that does a take on one of the myths we have in history.”

“Really?” You raise a brow and accept the paper. The title reads _Lady Thor_ , and immediately you smile knowing which myth he chose. The image of Thor claiming to be Freya and swinging Mjolnir at his new husband and the guests, all the while dressed in a bridal gown that spared no expenses. “Even this one. You know, this is one of my favorites.” 

Mr. Holland nods. “Yeah, of the ones you showed us, it’s mine, too.” He puts a hand on his neck and rubs. His eyes avoid your gaze a little, but through his eyelashes you can see him look up at you for a reaction. 

You smile wider, eye crinkling at the sides. “I’ll read through it tonight, okay?” 

At the words, Mr. Holland visibly relaxes. His arm falls down to his side, and he smiles. “Oh, wow, that’s really cool of you. Thank you so much.” 

You widen your smile at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Mr. Holland nods and shakes his head at the same time, looking like a little kid finally getting that present he wants. “Thank you so much. Have a nice day, professor Y/L/N. Thank you so much.”

You let out a laugh. “Thank you. Have a nice day, too, Mr. Holland,” you say, “see you tomorrow in class.”

He nods and leaves the classroom, last of the thirty students after yet another class of creative writing. You let out a content sigh and gather your things on the desk, tucking the paper with his story carefully into the same fold as your laptop so as not to wrinkle it. 

“Uh,” Hiddleston says, and you turn your head and glance at him, “this idea of yours, incorporating other works into their own, it was rather good.” 

You raise a brow and fully turn around. “Wait? Is what I’m hearing praise? From _Thomas William Hiddleston?_ From the man who hates my guts?” You fish your phone out of your pocket and open the camera. “Can you say it again, but on camera so I have proof?” 

Hiddleston rolls his eyes. “Can’t you just take the compliment? I know there’s not a lot of space in the nut you call a brain, but maybe try to find some for basic mannes.” 

“Oh, because there’s more space in yours? Sure, it’s bloated, but we both know how small it really is.” You scoff and turn around, putting your phone back in your pocket and closing the zipper of your backpack. “You know what, Hiddleston?” You turn back to him. 

“What?” 

“You’re just annoyed that I might actually have the upper hand in this class. That my ideas are better than yours and that, really, I should have the whole class. You know as well as I that the only reason I don’t is because you’re too proud to admit I’m better than you.” 

The man takes long, quick strides, closing the distance between you two. “I’m not annoyed. Rather I find it fascinating that you’re teaching a class that you’re less qualified for than the rest of the teaching faculty.” 

“I’m more than qualified. In fact, I believe I’m more qualified than you in certain aspects of it. All you got is your literature and your language, and sure it helps, but you’re too stuck up with the old you don’t know what’s new and how to actually make these students achieve to the best of their abilities.” You raise your voice. Eyes lock onto his; You can see your reflection in them, see the anger riddled on your face. “The fact that you don’t think I’m qualified is exactly why you’re brain is bloated; It’s because you can’t see facts unless they’re touching your dick.”

Hiddleston shakes his head. “Oh, yeah,” he says, “and why can’t you realize that I never did anything to you and that the only reason you hate me is because you need some action in your life?”

_What has that got to do with anything?_

You take a step closer to him. “Action? And what action do you give my life?” His breath mixes with yours. “You give me headaches, stomach aches making me want to not show up for work. I’ve missed every birthday of Benedict’s kids because of you and I love those kids. You ruin my life because you can’t see that not everything revolves around you. You’re not the freakin’ sun, but you damn as well might be the Earth being _that_ egocentric”

You’re both shouting now. Your words mix together and distorts into the background. One step closer and you can smell his cologne, One step closer and his heartbeat mixes with yours, creating a rhythm that takes control of your mind. Half a step closer and you’re inches apart, close enough for you to look into those blue-green eyes of his and see the fury sparkle. Half a step closer and you’ll be close enough to only need one push and your lips will touch his. 

Neither of you stop shouting, but as you take that step closer, you forget what you’re arguing about, even though your mouth continues to shout words. 

Never in a million years would you admit the thought that runs through your head as you take that step. Never in a million years would you act on said thought. But, right there and then, it crosses your mind. It races across, asking a million questions of what would happen if you were to lean up those few inches and capture his lips in a heated kiss that would _finally_ shut him up. 

But you don’t act. 

No, instead, your voice returns. Instead, your head grows clear. Instead, Tom’s voice slows down, the volume of his voice decreasing. 

In that moment, you know with one hundred percent certainty; You will never admit to why you hate him. You’ll never admit it’s easier to hate. Easier to fuel unnecessary rage and unjustified actions. Easier to keep hating and fuel the energy behind it. 

Because asking for forgiveness takes courage you don’t possess.


	5. Tom Hiddleston

He leans against the teachers desk, a worn first edition of Hamlet in his hands. The book is closed, with a bookmark jutting out the top where they stopped reading. Tom takes in the students, all of whom are immersed in their own world of writing and analysing. 

The clock nears the end of the class, which has the professor sigh. Both from displeasure at having his class end, but also in relief that it’s finally Friday, and he has no plans for the weekend save relaxing. 

“Okay, if I may have your attention, please,” he says after a few more moments. “I want these tasks done by class on Wednesday. Enjoy your weekend, and remember to read.”

The classroom empties, and Tom with it. The trip to his office takes little time. A feeling of deja-vu strikes him as he unlocks the door and hears a loud groan from the room next door. He heard that same groan a week before.

However, as Benedict isn’t there to check on the professor whose office is next door, he goes into his own and slumps down on the couch by the wall. He has every right to go home, take with him his work and maybe cozy up with Bobby, but instead he lies there, the door open, and with a need to just sit for two minutes, if not two whole days―two whole days sounds nice. 

A door creaks open. Closes shut. 

“Hey.” 

Reluctantly, he looks her way. She knocks carefully on his open door and gives him a small smile.

“Could you… could you maybe help me with something?” Y/N purses her lips. She raises a brow his way and looks like she expects a ‘no’. 

Which is what he wants to say. For the love of God, he does not want to move, but he twists on the couch and sits up. He doesn’t say anything, but gestures for her to talk. 

She rubs her neck, her gaze flickers from him to his desk. “Uhh, so like…” She lets out a sigh. “I was asked to do this thing, you know, as a favor to… someone, and.. Uh, I’m not really strong enough to do it myself.” 

Tom frowns. “And you ask for my help?”

“Well, I didn’t want to, but everyone I know are busy. Either home, or have class.” Y/N tries for a smile, but it looks rather weird. 

He sighs. “Okay, sure. What is it?” He stands up. 

“Just follow me.” 

He does, keeping two steps behind her the whole way, and with every one, his feet ache and his head throbs just slightly more. How glad he is Benedict and Sophie had date night and needed a babysitter last week and not this.

They stop at the entrance to the basement, and Tom frowns as Y/N turns around to face him. “The basement?” he asks. 

She nods. “Yeah, I don’t like it any more than you do, trust me.” 

“I don’t,“ he says, “but lead the way.” He gestures for her to start the way down, and as she opens the door and walks the steep steps down, he follows. 

The stairs end abruptly, and as Tom takes the last step, light floods in. Y/N is already on her way down one of the corridors, and Tom hurries after. When he catches up to her, he coughs from the dusty air and she turns back to him. “Really sorry about this.” 

Despite his irritation and annoyance for the colleague, he believes her. “What are we really getting anyway?” he asks, coughing more. It’s like something has stuck itself to the back of his throat. 

“Some old archives.” 

“Old archives? How old?” 

Y/N takes a right turn. “About a thousand years,” she says. “No, it’s some older essays written by professors during the early nineteen hundreds that are now deceased and whose work we no longer use because it’s mostly outdated.”

“And why are we getting it?” 

“Because I got my research project approved this morning. And as a favor to one of the other history professors who’ve agreed to help me find some sources, I had to get down here instead of him.”

Tom shakes his head. “And you’re dragging me with you?”

She shrugs and speeds up. “Yeah. Why not? If I’m doing something awful, don’t you believe I would bring you down with me to suffer the same fate?” She turns around and gives him a mischievous smile. It glints in her eyes. 

“You couldn’t have used a trolley?” he asks. 

She stops and raises her eyebrows at him. “How the hell am I supposed to get that down here?” 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. 

Before she turns around, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. 

“How much is it though? We don’t have to go more than one trip?” He’s not sure he can bear it. 

She doesn’t reply. Only takes a left turn and stops. “Shouldn’t take more than two at most, but yeah, I believe we’ll do good with one.” She reaches up, pulls out a box and opens the lid. Inside lies a bunch of papers in indecipherable handwriting. “Right place.”

Y/N hands him the box and takes down another one. She checks this one, too, and gives it to him. “How many boxes are there on this?” he asks as she takes down a third. 

“About, I don’t know, a hundred at least.” She makes a grimace. “But he wanted specific ones and I know these archives like the back of my hand. First year I started here, I researched psychology, mainly historic psychology and I used a lot of the stuff down here.”

Tom grunts as she places another box on the stack in his arms. He has three, and he might work out, but paper can be quite heavy. The next box she puts on the ground and he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“And how many does the professor need? Who needs it, really?” 

She shrugs. “He thinks I know what’s best to pick by what he told me. In reality he needs them all, but I think he can make do with these five.” She picks up the two he didn’t get. “And it’s professor Bettany.”

“I don’t know him particularly well.” Tom steps to the side and lets Y/N walk first seeing as she knows the way out. “What is it he wants with this?”

“I think he wants to see the progress in belief. Mostly in how their papers are influenced by societal norms, he does teach some social studies classes, too, after all. Probably link them up to modern day history textbooks and papers. He asked for one of my own on a subject I made sure is included in these boxes.” She takes a left turn. 

Tom sighs as a reply. He concentrates enough on trying to see behind the boxes blocking his vision. It’s not as easy as it sounds, and they tear at his energy more than before. 

And then everything goes pitch black. He stops, not daring taking another step. Y/N stops, too. He can her shuffling and a small thud. 

“I’ll go check what’s up, be right back.” 

Her steps fade away before he can tell her to wait. With a sigh, he puts down the boxes and clumsily tries to find the wall. He slides down, arms rests on his knees and he closes his eyes. His thoughts swirl as he sits there, making his brain drum in his ears. Sitting there in the dark, eyes closed, he can feel the need for a nap go through his body. Slowly, he feels his mind slips away and the sleep―

“So.” Y/N’s voice startles him out of his near sleep. He looks to where her voice came from. “We have a little problem.”

Tom sighs. “Don’t tell me were locked in here.” 

“Yeah, we’re locked in here, and the light doesn’t go on. Because they turn that off when they leave, and the main button overrides the one down here.”

“Great,” he says. “Why did I agree to this? I can’t believe you got us locked down here.”

“Really? This is all my fault?” He can feel her judgemental, exasperated look. “I just asked for some help, you can’t blame me for saying yes. Honestly, you should be thankful because had I gone alone I would be stuck here and when they would’ve found my body on Monday, you’d be the number one suspect.”

Tom scoffs. “They might still find your body on Monday unless you come up with a plan with that great mind of yours.”

She laughs. It echoes is the corridor, vibrates in the air. “Wow.” He hears her fumble and then the sliding of someone down a wall. “Okay, sure, blame me. But this is not all my fault.”

“Are you sure? Because I believe it was _you_ who needed to go down here. I believe it was _you_ who asked me to come with you. And, I believe it was _you_ who didn’t alert anyone that you were going down here in the first place.”

“That’s not even a thing. I never did those times the first year either, and you know what, this never happened once.”

“Ah, yes, the true story of Y/N Y/L/N. The professor who thinks she’s so smart she doesn’t actually know anything. What is it you call it? _Bullshitting?_ ” He smiles and laughs. The dark dissolves into decipherable pieces little by little, and he can see her outline. 

“And the fucking dude who thinks with his dick and actually believes it when it says it’s his brain,” she retorts. “Come on, dude, I don’t want to be down here any more than you. I was supposed to go to a wine night at my friend’s house, but I guess being down here works, too.”

Tom sighs. He gets to his feet and finds the boxes. “Come on. I’m not staying here all night. We’re finding a way out.” 

“Finally, some fucking sense.” Y/N scrambles to her feet and picks up the boxes she dropped earlier. The two of them walk to where they came from. The exit is dark, and the before open door is now closed. 

They set the boxes down at the end of the stairs. Tom takes two at a time to get to the top. He shakes the door, but it doesn’t budge. He checks around him, maybe there’s a key for emergencies down here, but there’s nothing. 

When he comes down again he hears low mumbling from Y/N. “Nope, no. Not working, nope, won’t… and that would, uhh.”

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

She looks his way. “Trying to rack my brain for an idea. There’s gotta be something we can do, and I know you tried to look for a key up there by the door. It doesn’t exist.”

He rolls his eyes and sits down at the end of the stairs. 

“Okay, but I know this place, so what if we put the boxes up at the top of the stairs and try to search for another door leading somewhere, and when we’re out we can get the boxes from here then?” 

Tom groans and gets up. He takes the three boxes he was carrying and starts up the stairs. With the boxes, he feels a lot less safe than he did before. The stairs are a little too steep for it to be comfortable to walk without holding onto the railing. But he gets up, and he sets the boxes down by the door. Y/N comes up right behind him, though there isn’t much space at the top step and as she sets down the boxes, she slips. Tom’s hand grabs her wrist and pulls her up. He can see the fear in her eyes as he drags her close to make sure she doesn’t fall. 

“Thanks,” she says, her voice small and mixing with her breath. He lets go of her wrist, steps around her and starts the walk down again. He holds one hand on the railing, glad he doesn’t have boxes to carry down. He glances back at Y/N, who takes a careful step down, both hands on the railing. She purses her lips and stare at the stairs with wide eyes. Every step she takes, she uses what Tom uses for two. He’s down more than a full minute before her, but he doesn’t rush her. Normally, he would complain, but seeing how terrified she looks, he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Where do we go first?” he asks. 

Y/N looks from side to side. The dark makes the corridors harder to see far in, but she doesn’t use long before choosing to go right. The opposite way of where they went to get the boxes. 

They walk in silence for a while. The dark and dragging of feet are their only companions. The occasional sigh from either of them breaks the silence every now and then, but the corridor doesn’t seem to end. 

Y/N stops. She turns around and faces him. “Do you have your phone on you?” she asks. 

Tom checks his pockets. Mostly, his phone lies in a pocket in his bag. It does so now, too. “No, I don’t.” 

She sighs. “I don’t either. Didn’t expect us to end up being down here long.” Her hand goes up to her face and she rubs her chin. “I was hoping you had it, and if we had service, we could call Ben.”

“Sorry that didn’t work out.” Tom leans against the wall. “Why did I agree to help you?” He says it mostly to himself, but the history professor slides down the opposing wall. 

“Because, according to my friend, you’re a ‘nice guy’.” She uses air quotes as she says ‘nice guy’, and he chuckles and slides down the wall he’s leaning against. 

He nods. “Nice guy, huh?” He smiles. “I think your friend’s correct.”

Y/N scoffs. “Yeah, the only reason we’re really talking now is because we’re stuck down here. You’re an idiot and that’s how it’s always gonna be.” 

“Sure, I’m the idiot. I’m not the one who didn’t alert anyone that we were going down here and then got us locked in.”

“Oh, yeah, great. Blame me.” She shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable. I try to come up with ideas to get out of here, and all you do is call me an idiot. Maybe you could help?” 

Tom nods. “Sure, if i wasn’t too exhausted. But I can’t sit here forever, I have someone waiting for me.” He gets up from the wall. “Come on, if we stay here, I’m gonna fall asleep.”

“Because I’m that boring, yeah I get it.” Y/N gets to her feet and glares at him. 

“Your words, darling.” He flashes her a smile and continues down the corridor. 

—

As Y/N tries to budge the door they find, Tom checks his clock. They’ve been down there for over an hour he realizes, and lets out a loud sigh. 

“Can you help and not just stand there?” Y/N stops trying to budge the door and turns around. She looks at him impatiently. 

He rolls his eyes and moves to help her. They push at the door on three, and it budges a little. “One,” she says again. “Two. _Three_.” It gives in, but not enough. On the third count of three it budges enough for light to filter through the gap. They give it another go.

The door opens wide. The little light signaling the end of the day cascades in. Tom doesn’t hesitate to get out. The air around him turns breathable. The light of the lowering sun welcomes him. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh of relief. He takes a deep breath of fresh air, filling his lungs with smells he didn’t know he’d missed. 

Y/N comes out moments after, though she doesn’t seem to take pleasure in it. She stalks towards the closest entrance back into the university building. Tom follows after at his own pace, continuously enjoying the fresh air that fills his lungs. 

The history professor holds the door open by leaning against it when he catches up to her. She shakes her head, huffs and walks into the building knowing Tom trails after.

The basement isn’t far away from the entrance, and when they get there, Y/N slides her keycard over the lock and the door makes a noise to let them know it’s unlocked. Within a few minutes, the boxes are in their hands and they walk back to Y/N’s office. 

“Just put them down on the couch,” she says and does that with the two she carries. 

Tom follows her lead and puts them down. He glances at her and purses his lips as he puts his hands in his pockets. The silence is deafening, and unusual. But Tom doesn’t feel it’s right to argue after the time spent in the basement. They argued enough confined there as it was. 

So, instead he nods and turns to the door. “I’ll be off now. See you Monday.” 

She nods, though her expression seems lost. “Yeah, Monday, yeah.” 

Tom takes one step, and is stopped by a hand on his wrist. He looks up at her, ignores the warmth that flows through him at the touch. 

“Thanks,” she says, a soft smile accompanied with the words. “You know, for, uhh, saving me on the stairs.” Y/N let’s go of his hand and rubs her neck. She bites her lip as her eyes lock with his. 

He returns her smile. “You’re welcome.” Sweat feels like it trickles down his back. “Can’t have you dying on me,” he says, “who would I have to pick a fight with?” 

Y/N lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, that’s true,” she says and nods. “Anyways, thanks.” 

Tom doesn’t reply with anything save another smile and walks out of there. His hands are clammy and he feels his shirt cling to his back. Maybe he underestimated how draining being in the basement had been? 

—

The TV plays in the background as Tom scrolls through his phone. He never really updates Instagram and doesn’t even bother checking what’s new there. Who even uses Facebook? So, as usual, his scroll is Twitter focused. 

He likes and retweets a few tweets before coming to the conclusion that a Saturday night should be spent differently. But, before he can put down his phone and follow the TV with the same interest, a notification pops up. _Mail from Y/I/Y/L/N@*****.co.uk._

Tom sits up a little in the chair and clicks on it. 

> Y/N Y/L/N  
>  **this u**

When we heard that one sound, this you:

Wise words:

  


There is no actual end to the email, just the three pictures. Tom frowns at it. First of all, he did not scream at the sound, he made a very unafraid jump and sound came from his mouth. Second of all, he had some good ideas, and third, he does not roll his eyes that much. 

And he finds it rather funny Y/N would think so. 

> Thomas William Hiddleston  
>  **Re: this u**

I’m not sure I understand what you mean by this, but I am certain you are wrong whatever it is.

\- Tom

Warmth spreads through his body as he hits send. It feels like he’s sweating, which there are no reasons for. He puts down his phone and gets up and out of the chair, but the feeling doesn’t shake. It’s probably just exhaustion, he tells himself. Maybe a small fever, but nothing that won’t end after the weekend. It’s probably nothing.


	6. Y/N Y/L/N

Y/BFF/N sits down at the end of the couch, tucking their legs to them and a cup of hot chocolate in their hands. “Okay,” they say and take a sip, “care to tell me why you called half an hour _after_ we started to say you weren’t coming?”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “I just got held up at work, you know that.” You add a careless shrug to the omission. It’s not that it would be so bad to tell them you spent an hour with Tom Hiddleston in the basement, but you know it will have consequences. One of them being their immediate reaction of ‘ _did you fuck?_ ’

“Oh, come one,” they say. “You love spilling the tea and I know there’s tea to be spilled.” 

You roll your eyes. “If I love spilling tea then why haven’t we cleaned up the mess yet? Because there is none.” The real tea is that you don’t want to tell them because you can’t really say you hate Hiddleston anymore, not after he saved your life. Rather, you tire at the fact that you owe him. 

Y/BFF/N nods and put their mug to their mouth. “So, you were someplace with Tom. Where?” Then they take a long sip, smiling smugly as they watch you groan. 

“Why? Why do you do this to me? Hiddleston and I were nowhere, okay? I don’t like him, why would I be somewhere with him?” You sigh at them. 

“Sure, you weren’t someplace with him.” Y/BFF/N nods ironically. “What did you do? What got you caught up?” They take another sip, smirk hiding behind their mug. 

“I got some old papers and stuff from the basement for one of my coworkers.” You shrug. “It was no big deal. I did him a favor because he’s doing me one.” 

“That the payment he needs for sex?” 

You stare wide-eyed at her. “He’s married, Y/BBF/N, so no. He’s getting some sources for my research paper so I went down there to repay him. Literally. He has a kid.” 

Y/BFF/N shrugs. “I didn’t know you were so uptight. Maybe you should have slept with him, get it out of your system.” 

“I know you’re just teasing now, but honest to God, you have to stop thinking about me having sex with my colleagues. It’s disturbing.” You drag a hand through your hair. 

They smile knowingly as a response. “Okay, but either way, that can’t have taken that much time, something must’ve happened.”

“Yeah, the basement locked. It does at five thirty everyday, but I really thought I had more time. I went in there at four thirty, I think. Maybe later? I got out eventually, after putting the boxes I needed by the door, nearly falling to my death and then walking until I got out. It was a pain. We got out like after more than an hour, and that was…” You shake your head at the thought. 

Y/BFF/N smirks. “We?”

You groan. “I let it slip, didn’t I?”

They nod. 

“Ugh, so yeah, I asked for some help so that I didn’t have to go down alone.” In reality, you had asked Tom because the basement creeped you out, and, as you had told him, you weren’t going to suffer alone. The fact that he said yes is still way past you. 

“So, who did you ask? If you say something lame like Benedict, I’m going to kill you for not using it as an opportunity.” 

You shake your head. “It wasn’t Benedict, but I’m not telling. And why do you focus on that when I literally said ‘nearly falling to my death’. Why do you focus on the wrong things?” 

They shrug. “Because you’re not dead. I hope to God you fucked whoever it was though. It might really be all you need.” 

Your back heats up at the words. The thought of fucking Hiddleston? It would be a lie to say you hadn’t imagined his hands roaming over your body. It would be a lie to say you hadn’t thought about what it would be like to have his breath hot on yours, you hands exploring every inch and crevice of a body you know is _fine_. It would be a lie to say you had never imagined hate sex; fast, rough and hard as he takes you right there in your office. The thought of it has crossed your mind many times. Now, you would like to think about anything else. 

“Oh, so you want to do it with whoever it was? Interesting,” says Y/BFF/N, interrupting your thoughts. You shake off the feeling creeping up your back and send them a glare. “Oh my God, you were locked down there with _Tom!_ ” 

Throwing your head back, you groan. “How do you do that?” you ask. 

They chuckle. “Oh, we’ve known each other for so long that I pick up on it. Why are you even surprised?”

You sigh and let their comment go by unanswered. Just the groan was more admittance than you would have liked. 

—

By lunch on Monday, more or less everyone knows you and Hiddleston were stuck down in the basement. How, you’re not sure, but you have a feeling it has something to do with Y/BFF/N and the fact that they do have Benedict’s number. 

You’ve been sitting peacefully with your sandwich for a while, the lunch table all to yourself and a book on norse mythology open beside you. The words on the page, no matter how interesting you find it, all flitter to each side. Concentrating takes a toll, and as you take another bite of your sandwich, you sigh. 

Once more you try, changing the page in hopes that it’ll help. But all you do is stare at the words, read the same sentence over and over again, and not even noticing that that’s what you are doing. 

A chair scrapes against the floor. You look up to find Benedict and Professor Redmayne. The Art History professor isn’t one you know particularly well, but enough to not find it weird that he sits down in front of you together with Benedict. 

You close your book and take another bite of your food. 

“You look exhausted,” says Benedict, a worried crease between his brows. 

“Yeah,” you nod, “I am.” 

Eddie gives you a look. “Why?” he asks. 

You sigh. “Well, it’s the fact that I haven’t slept well this weekend, and that I’ve been approached―and this pains me―by some of my students, asking if me and Hiddleston, uhh… ‘had some fun’ in the basement.” 

Benedict smiles. “Did you?” he asks. 

“Haha, very funny.” You roll your eyes. “Literally all we did was talk shit to each other, okay?”

A look crosses both men’s faces. They glance at each other and then at you, making you certain they know more than they let on. 

You sigh and put your head in your hands. “Okay, tell me. What did he say?” 

Eddie presses his lips together, giving Benedict the word. The latter leans forward, opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times, and then, an incoherent mumble. 

You raise a brow. “What?”

The physics professor smiles. “ _He_ didn’t say it, but a certain friend of yours said you nearly fell to your death, and that he saved you. Tom hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Okay, so Y/BFF/N will get my wrath, but I don’t understand what makes you think this is so …something?” You frown at them, unsure how to read the situation. 

The men sigh. This exasperated ‘you’re-a-fool’ sigh that makes you frown even more. Benedict takes your hand in his, and he looks you straight in the eyes. “The fact that Tom hasn’t said anything, with this being a perfect opportunity to humiliate you, is him saying he doesn’t want to. It means something happened and that made him care, in a way.” 

“I don’t think so.” You shake your head, ignore the little stab in your gut and glance between the two men. “I used the opportunity, right? Why wouldn’t he?” As you say the words, you know why. When you got down those stairs, your whole body shaking, he’d seen the look on your face. Hiddleston had noticed how shaken you’d been by nearly falling, and he hadn’t used the opportunity when it was only the two of you. Maybe he was a ‘nice guy’? 

“Seems like you do know why,” says Eddie and shoots you a smile. 

You shake your head. “Okay, so he saved my life. I still hate him.” The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, and judging by the two males’ expressions, they don’t believe you. “Fine!” you say through gritted teeth, “I hate the fact that I can’t hate him.”

Benedict smiles. “I think you’ve never really hated him.” 

You roll your eyes. 

—

It isn’t like you want to go home, but _god do you want to go home_. It’s Wednesday and the clock is slowly turning eight PM, you sigh at the laptop in front of you. You’d tried hard, for over an hour, to actually find the interest to read something (it had been there, like at three fifteen when you still had class and no way to actually do something, and then when the time came it had completely disappeared). 

Instead, what you have read is interesting. It just has nothing to do with what you’re supposed to learn something about. Norse mythology, nope. It’s neither norse or nordic, nor is it anywhere close to religion and mythology. 

Or maybe a little bit closer, as the topic is beliefs about vampires during the sixteenth century. But how that will help other than knowing that there might have been a vampire exorcism on a Venetian island―that’s what you got from the article at least―you don’t know. Scientists are unsure, and you’re screaming at your brain for thinking that that’s valuable information.

Worst of all is that you have no idea how you even got into the topic. From norse mythological monsters to vampires in the sixteenth century. What vampires and Fenris have in common is beyond you. 

And now that the information has kind of stuck, you’re back to square one. You close the opened tabs and check the clock again. _Okay, still on for dinner I guess_. Yeah, if you actually get out of there and not stay through the night. God, the week before had been so much easier. 

You decide, right there and then, to at least take a breather. The chair rolls into the cupboard behind you and makes a slight sound that has a groan escape your lips. You ignore it, grab your jacket and move out of your office. You don’t bother locking, seeing as you’ll only go out for a few minutes. It’s not like there’s a lot of people here either. 

Outside, the air folds around you. Cold air that feels like a heavy blanket. Nevertheless, it feels nice. The sensation tickles your skin, draws away some of the warmth from your back and arms. It clears your head, making room for new thoughts.

You close your eyes and lean back against the brick wall of the building. A deep breath in. _One, two, three_. And out. _One, two, three._

“Why are you still here?” 

The voice has you jump slightly to the side, scraping your hand on the wall. You open your eyes and groan inwardly―judging by the look on his face you made some sound―at the sight of Hiddleston. 

“I can ask you the same thing,” you reply.

He nods. “I forgot something, and since I promised to bring it to someone, I decided to go back and get it. I suppose you never went home.” 

You hadn’t really expected him to explain himself, so you shrug. “Too busy thinking and getting my research project going.”

“Is it going that well?” He cocks a brow. “And I thought you were tired, you looked half-asleep during lunch.”

“Oh, so you watch me, do you?” A smirk plays on your lips. Hiddleston rolls his eyes and takes a hold of the door. “But yeah. I was tired, and now I’m not.” The lie doesn’t feel as bitter as when you lied to Benedict, but something uncomfortable settles in your gut. 

And the yawn that comes right after does little to prove your point. It has Hiddleston smile smugly. He opens the door. “You know, there’s no rule saying you have to be better than me. Just say you’re tired and go home.”

You shake your head. “It’s possible to yawn and not be tired.” 

“But you walked outside for fresh air, right? And you don’t smoke?” He nods knowingly. “That usually says you’re tired.”

“What good does this do you anyway? Can’t you just leave me alone?” 

He shakes his head, the smug smile still plastered on his lips. “I told you, who else do I have to pick a fight with?” 

You roll your eyes, but don’t answer him, only shove him in his back and follow after him inside.

“But, while I have your attention.” He starts walking backwards, facing you as he walks and glances back every now and then so that he doesn’t walk into something. “Maybe we can discuss tomorrow’s class.”

“Okay, what about it?”

“Shakespeare.” He smiles. “The way of the old you so harshly talked about. Let’s have them compare. Storytelling then versus now, and how to use language to convey feelings differently.” 

You nod. “So, basically language training in how to be precise, or subtle, in what you want to come across? And then comparing how we do it now to how they did it way back when?”

He nods. “Yes. The language part of stories, rhythm, sound, what words to use, is often shadowed by the actual story. As a reader, that has little to say, but as a writer, it might have everything to say.”

“That sounds good. Yeah, sure. You can teach tomorrow if you want.” 

“You know, if you need a day off, I don’t think that’s a problem.” His smile is warm, his eyes soft as they search your face. It has something bubble in your gut, seeing those ocean blue eyes stare at you with compassion. The sensation is almost good, _almost._

You shake it off. “No, no. I don’t need a day off. I just need sleep, really? And please, you saved my life once and think you’re some hero? Be my guest and shove the nice act up where the sun don’t shine, okay?”

The way his smile falls off his face and how he stops in his tracks, makes a smile form on yours. It might be the exhaustion that makes you grumpy, but you’re certain it’s the pity in his eyes, because you can tell for a fact it pisses you off when people try to be nice. 

With a few more steps, you make it to your office. It bathes in warmth, and the bright light from the lamp has dots appear before your eyes. Okay, so you are tired, but to hell with _Hiddleston_ being the one to tell you to take a break. Over your dead body. So you can’t hate him anymore, but you sure as hell aren’t gonna be nice straight away either. 

He knocks on your office door as you pack your things. “Do you want a ride? I don’t believe you’re fit for driving.” 

You let out an exasperated sigh. “What did I say about the nice act? Where does it belong?” He presses his lips together, avoiding your look. “Yeah, that’s right, so no, I don’t want a fucking ride. Please, just… leave me alone a little bit, okay?”

Fuck if he’s gonna continue like this you’re gonna have to call off that plan of yours. It hasn’t even really started yet, but for that to work, the two of you cannot be any form of friends. 

Hiddleston holds up his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot. I’m just trying to be nice. But I’ll leave, as you clearly don’t want that.” 

You don’t answer, only roll your eyes and sling your backpack up your shoulder. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t leave. Only moves from the doorway to let you lock and in a tension filled silence, you walk through the hallways and to the parking lot. 

He doesn’t seem to want to leave, though. It’s as if he has a nice guy complex, or a hero one, and has to make sure you actually make it home. You find this highly annoying as you can’t get your car to start and march over to his. 

“Not. A. Word,” you say and open the passenger side door. You sit down and slam the door shut, enough to elicit a sound from Hiddleston, but no words. The whole ride, you sit in silence except for the directions you give him

And when the car pulls to a stop outside your apartment complex, you mumble a thank you. Hiddleston only smiles and mentions picking you up tomorrow at seven. Grudgingly, you nod and when you finally get to kick off your shoes and throw yourself down on the couch, you find a pillow to scream into as something stirs in your stomach. 

—

The rest of the week you’re one tired mess. Exhaustion riddles your body. You ache from tip to toe and Friday night feels like a curse in disguise because you can’t believe you finally get to just lie down and not do anything. 

You throw yourself down on your couch, and don’t even bother reaching for the remote as you let yourself sigh and relax. You close your eyes and let the waves of fatigue leave your body. Sounds of cars and the smell of cooking fills your apartment. The soft feeling of the couch beneath you has another sigh leave your lips. 

It’s all short lived as someone pounds on your door. Your eyes open and you slowly sit up, only to hear the door rip open and your neighbor walk in with a deadly expression in his eyes. Tired eyes meet his gaze as he starts to yell. 

It drowns out within the sound of your head drumming, pounding with a force you haven’t encountered before. Seems you were right about the curse in disguise. 

Mr. Jones’s arms waves as he yells. He frantically points outside, at your window and at your door. Your stomach growls as he continues. Eventually, your uninterested expression has to make him leave, but he doesn’t. 

“―and that’s just the icing. You know what’s worse?” The man points at you with a stern finger. “What’s worse is that those kids don’t seem to know who owns this place. God, can you believe it?”

You shake your head. “Uh, Mr. Jones,” you begin, and the man stops and cocks his head, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, nor do I care because I’ve had a long week and I wish to sleep.”

“No, you don’t understand. They sent me this package. You know what was in it?”

You shake your head. 

“A note about some confession of love. A love note. Can you believe the audacity?” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t just someone who sent it wrong? Those kids may cause trouble at times, but they never really go out of their way to do something.” The couch wraps around you as you lean back and sigh. 

Mr. Jones rubs his beard. “Well. I guess you might be right. Or maybe I do have a secret admirer.” He smiles at you and gives a little wave. “Thanks for the chat, you’re always so helpful.” And then he leaves. 

As his footsteps retreat, you close your eyes. Relief washes over you as you can finally just relax. But then his footsteps come back. You open your eyes, wanting to scream at him to go away but instead you let out a small groan. Mr. Jones opens his mouth and a new flood of words attack you. _God, someone please save me._

You pick up your phone and send a quick text to Y/BFF/N about needing a rescue. They reply quickly about you having to put on something nice to go out in. With a sigh, you stand up and silence Mr. Jones. 

“I’m meeting a friend in a bit, so I have to get ready, do you think we can have this conversation some other time?” you ask. 

“Oh, of course. You’re busy, of course you are. Young woman like you probably has a lot of suitors, too, correct?” He flashes his signature creepy smile. 

You nod. “Yeah, a lot, sure.” 

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He walks out and you nod as a thanks. “Wear something nice, okay? Don’t want to disappoint the young man.” 

You nod, “no, we don’t want that.” And then you close the door and turn the lock, and slide down with a sigh. Mr. Jones can be nice, sure, be he can also be a huge pain in the ass and usually highly misogynistic. In the future, you hope he stops barging in whenever he has a problem. 

—

The beat of loud music drums within your ears. The taste of beer lingers on your tongue. Warm air from the bodies around brushes your bare arms. A strange sensation of being looked at fills your spine with chills. All around you, people either sit and talk, or move around on the crowded dance floor. 

Said dance floor is also where Y/BFF/N is currently residing. They left you alone at your table after their first drink (and a shot) and so far has scored about two people dancing with them. How, you’re honestly not sure. 

You watch with an absent mind. Your thoughts playing with different ideas of how to relax best the coming days. After all, Saturday and Sunday are best spent sleeping in. Except for those papers you have to finish grading, but the deadline for those are Tuesday, so you don’t think too hard about it. 

A head blocks your vision of the dance floor and drags you out of your thoughts. The male is good looking, with light brown hair and a full, trimmed beard to match. Kind eyes meet yours and a slightly flirtatious smile with it. 

“Can I sit here?” he asks, in a definite American accent. 

You nod and press your lips together as he sits down on the chair across from you. “I’m Chris,” he says and reaches out a hand for you to shake. 

With a smile you take it. “Y/N.” 

“You come here often, Y/N?” he asks. Your name rolls off his tongue, making your throat dry. 

“Not really,” you reply. “See the one dancing over there, in ripped jeans? My best friend, dragged me out here because I needed to get away from one of my neighbors.”

He chuckles. “I see, so in reality, you’re only hiding.”

You smile. “Guess you can say that.” The beer bottle clinks as it connects with the table. “What about you?”

“Only passing through town.” He presses his lips together and takes a sip of his own beer. “Really just out to find someone that might want to show me around.”

“Oh.” Your tongue graces over your lips. “And you believe I can do that?”

He breathes in through his teeth, smiling and making a ‘sss’ sound. “Thought so at first, but turns out I’m not sure anymore.” Chris leans forward, elbows on the table. 

You mimic his position. “Oh, well, is there somewhere I can show you around?” The exhaustion that riddled your body earlier, vanishes as you continue the conversation. To be honest, it has been a while, and a one night stand wouldn’t be too bad. Isn’t that what Y/BFF/N has been nagging about for a while now?

Chris smiles. “There might be. Depends how far.” He leans back in his chair, eyeing you and letting his gaze rest on your lips. 

“How far is too far?” 

The chair scrapes against the wooden floor as he stands up. “Seems it isn’t too far, wanna say bye to your friend?” 

You nod. As you walk past the table, you grab his hand, and quickly find your best friend having the time of their life on the dance floor. They see you and smile, and then see the person behind you. When she winks, you nod and drag with you Chris out into the cool air. 

It brushes your skin. That and the lack of music pounding in your head, makes a content sigh escape your lips. 

“So, how far are we walking?” Chris lets go of your hand and pulls you close to him, letting his hand snake around your waist. 

That’s actually the reason you picked the bar you’re at. It’s close to your apartment, and actually a rather nice place. You smile up at him. “About five hundred meters straight ahead.” 

He chuckles. “And what’s that in yards?”

You shake your head and shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Time?”

“Between five and ten minutes, depends on how fast you walk.” You scrunch your nose as you smile, and his eyes lock with yours. 

Chris licks his lips. “Then I guess we’ll have to be quick.” 

You tiptoe up and plant a kiss on his cheek. “I know a way.”

He raises a brow. You move to whisper in his ear, and in a breathless voice you say, “catch me.” You start running, and turn your head to see if he runs after. 

With an amused smile and a laugh that fills the air, he does. 

—

A pair of strong arms are wrapped around you when you wake. Light filters in through the blinds. Groggily you open your eyes to see where you are and why you’re not alone. The small events of last night quickly dawns on you and a small smile appears on your face. Carefully, you reach for your phone, which turns out to not be on the nightstand. 

However, getting out of bed doesn’t work, as the minute you move, the strong arms drag you back into the torso they’re attached to and a head nuzzles into your neck. You smile and turn slightly, finding the face of the male in bed with you. 

He peeks an eyes open, but quickly closes it. You laugh and push at him a little. 

“I wanna sleep,” he says. “Can’t we just lie here?” 

“You can, but I have to check my phone.” You push at his chest. “I wanna make sure my friend made it home safely.” 

Chris releases his grip and mumbles an ‘okay’. As you scoot out of bed, and chuckle at his laziness. You grab a t-shirt on the way out, pretty sure it’s his as you put it on, but you don’t care. 

You find your phone on the coffee table. Two missed calls and a message from Y/BFF/N saying, _I made it hooooome. Hope you got laid, happy for you ;P_ In addition, you have a new mail from none other than Hiddleston. 

Making your way to the kitchen, you open it and read through. The subject line reads ‘grading’ and the message itself is just a list of ways to grade and how to both grade from the same basis. You type a quick reply about getting back to him about it after the weekend, but that what he has there looks fine. Either way, the paper the students are handing in isn’t due until Friday night. 

“Hey, Y/N,” comes Chris’s voice from the bedroom. You look to the doorway and find your breath hitch at the male standing there in only boxers. “Do you mind me staying?” he asks, voice a little nervous and with a hint of hope. 

You bite your lip. “Not really, why? I mind if you want to do something tiring, but other than that, no.”

He smirks. “What goes within the term tiring?” he asks. 

“Yes, that’s still on the table.” 

The reply makes him smile wider and move his way towards you. “Good, because I wouldn’t mind a repeat of yesterday’s fun.”

“Well, before that,” you say and smile, “breakfast.”

He nods. “Sounds good, what are we making?” 

You cock a brow. “Not sure, what do you want?” 

“Pancakes sounds nice, right?” 

You nod and smile. “Pancakes it is.”


	7. Tom Hiddleston

Something is off. 

The atmosphere of the teacher’s lounge feels different, as if it’s vibrating at a different frequency. Tom scans the room, seeing the usual faces sit and eat with the coworkers they best get along with. 

His gaze lands on Y/N. 

She’s smiling into her phone. This wide grin that makes her eyes crinkle at the side and lights up her face. She bites her lip as she types something, and Tom, being curious (and because Benedict is sitting with her) walks over. He pulls out a chair, which makes enough sound to have her head tilt up to see who it is. Seeing him, she scrunches her nose in what he suspects is distaste. A mumble of a hi (which is progress) and she’s back in her phone. 

Tom looks to Benedict, who shrugs. “She’s been like this since I came.”

“So, you have no idea who she’s talking with?” he asks.

“I have no idea if what she’s doing is talking with someone,” replies Benedict, “for all I know, she might just be looking at memes.”

Tom glances at Y/N again; how she grins into her phone, how she tucks her lip into her mouth and a blush creeps up her cheeks, how her eyes sparkle, how she giggles slightly as she types. “Oh, no, I’ve seen this look before,” he says to Benedict, without taking his eyes off Y/N―and ignoring the twist his gut makes―“she’s talking to someone, no doubt.”

“Have you seen her this way?” Benedict nods in Y/N’s direction. 

“No, I’ve seen my students that way. And asking them about it usually makes me know they have a crush or are talking to a cute boy they met over the weekend. Or just a boyfriend.” 

Y/N looks up. “I thought your students were in love with _you_.” She puts away her phone on the table, screen facing down. 

Tom chuckles. “No, that’s a rarer case than the rumors imply.” The usual indifferent expression that Y/N proudly bears, is back. “Who were you speaking to?”

“And why aren’t you still?” shoots Benedict in. 

She smiles. “This guy I met. He and a friend of his that are in town are going to visit a former coworker in town. They just arrived so he said we’ll talk later.”

Benedict leans forward, wiggling his eyebrows. “You met someone. Future boyfriend material?”

Tom swallows a lump in his throat. He glances from his best friend to his―what are they now? Frenemies? 

The smile that appears on Y/N’s face is unmistakable. She looks like she’s dreaming. “I don’t know. He’s American, and we are still talking, it’s just. Honestly, I thought it would just be a one night stand, but he’s nice, so I’m not sure.”

“Aww, that’s cute.” 

Tom isn’t sure he feels the same. “Surprised he keeps in touch. Did you lie about being interesting?” Something stabs in his stomach, but he keeps up the little smirk he has. 

“You’re so original,” she says, “but, you’re right, I did. Told him I suck so hard at what I do I need help and that just had him fall into my trap. Oh, wait, I told him about you and not me.” 

Tom rolls his eyes. 

“Have you found your brain yet?” She gives him a smile. “Didn’t think it would be hard, seeing as―no, wait, sorry. You’re brain isn’t in your head, we’ve already agreed on this.” She shakes her head, a tight smile on her lips, but a glint in her eyes. 

Benedict leans back and stares at them. “However entertaining you’re bickering is, where is his brain?” 

The smile that appears on Y/N’s face at the question stirs everything in Tom. But the glance she has over Tom, and the way she slightly sticks out her tongue to coat her lips, has an effect he will not admit. 

“Oh, you know, it’s his dick.” 

Benedict bursts out laughing. And then reaches over and holds out his hands for a high five, which Y/N gladly gives while she winks at Tom. 

“Yeah, it’s one of my better jokes because I can use it in so many―”

She stops talking, her gaze diverted to behind Tom. The shock in her eyes as both Tom and Benedict turn around. 

A smile spreads across his features as he sees who Y/N stopped talking for. Tom stands up and walks over to the two men at the entrance to the teacher’s lounge. He greets both men with a hug. “It’s been so long, what are you doing here?”

“Well, we’re on a little seminar trip that starts tomorrow and took a few extra days to enjoy the town. Had to make a stop, right?” says Chris, a smile visible through his beard. 

Sebastian scoffs. “Except this dude spent most of the weekend at some girl’s apartment having sex.”

“Benedict around?” Chris avoids the comment. 

Tom smiles. “Oh, of course. We’re having lunch, you should join us.” He leads them back to the table, relieved that there are two free chairs there. He stops by and smiles to Benedict. He’s about to introduce them when Y/N stands up. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” She walks around him and gives Chris a hug. He hugs back, the smile on his face now a grin. 

“Visiting an old friend,” replies Chris, and frowns a little. “You never said you were a college professor.”

Y/N shrugs with a small smile. “Didn’t come up in conversation. Not my fault.”

Tom looks at Sebastian and Benedict, and the confusion he sees on their faces mimics his own. He meets Benedicts gaze, who mouths “what is going on?”, to which Tom can only shrug. 

“How do you two know each other?” Sebastian interrupts the two chattering… friends? 

Chris shakes his head. “Oh, yeah, of course.” He smiles at Y/N. “Y/N, this is my coworker Sebastian. Seb, this is…uhh, Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you.” Y/N holds out her hand and Sebastian takes it with a firm handshake. 

“You’re the girl from this weekend, aren’t you?” he asks, and when she nods with an embarrassed smile, he smiles back. “Nice to meet you, too.”

It’s like his brain just stops. Tom rewinds the few seconds that just went by, and replays them. In his head, he doesn’t react. Which is about the same that happens in reality too. As Sebastian and Chris take the free seats, and Y/N sits down again, he slowly does the same. But his reactions are slower and he misses pieces of the conversation as Y/N laughs and Benedict joins in a little after. 

When he regains his mind and his brain cooperates, the conversation flows easily. But he still can’t help the feeling deep in his gut, the one that churns and hurts. He can’t name it, but he can sure tell he doesn’t like it. 

Whenever Y/N puts her hand on Chris, whether accidentally or on purpose, it grows. 

—

Tom stares at the sign outside the grocery store, annoyance rides up in him. 

_CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS_

He sighs, pulls his phone out of his pocket and searches google maps for the closest store to his apartment―one that he can actually go to and that he slightly knows. He finds one not far from where he is, about ten minutes detour to his apartment. 

But he doesn’t have a choice as there isn’t enough food at home to actually last through the week, barely enough to last for dinner tonight.

The drive takes a little more than those ten minutes he expected, mainly because he isn’t familiar enough with the area. He parkes as close to the entrance as he gets. It’s not crowded, but there are a few cars there and the parking lot can hold at least three times as many cars as are parked. By the looks of the building, the store is bigger than his usual, too. 

On his way inside, he finds a cart. He pulls out his shopping list, going over the items he put down the night before. There are two; tomatoes and milk. He sighs, and makes his way down the aisles. 

He finds the tomatoes and the milk. In addition, he takes with him some extra toppings; cheese and ham (it does feel a little boring). Going through the frozen section, he takes with him a pack of salmon and some frozen vegetables. He continues to walk aimlessly down the aisles, plucking with him some things here and there that he feels like, but nothing much. 

By the pastry section, he stops and scans his choices. It all looks tempting, but he doesn’t reach out to get any of them.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he hears a snarky voice to his right, “thought I got enough of you from work.” 

Y/N gives him a small smile as she takes a bag and picks out a few pieces of pastries. Tom doesn’t answer her, just blinks at the woman in front of him. When she turns around, a smile plays on her face, but not the smirk she usually shows. This smile looks …happy. 

“Can’t find your voice?” she asks. 

Tom shakes his head. “Tired.” 

She nods. “Get that. What’re you doing here anyway? Never seen you here before?” 

“The one I usually go to is closed for renovations,” he says.

Y/N looks at him, sparkling eyes search his face. His heart does a flip, something he ignores. “Are you really okay? You stood here for a few minutes before I even said anything and you’re still just standing here.”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine,” he says. “I guess a little out of it maybe, but I’m okay.”

She doesn’t look convinced.” Sure? Because you look a little green there, buddy.” When he shrugs as a reply she walks to a basket and puts the bag of pastries down. “Need help with anything then? I know this store like the back of my hand and it is rather big.”

“Actually, that would be really helpful.”

Y/N smiles, picks up her basket and hooks her arm in his. “Then let’s find some groceries.” 

Her arm hooked in his has Tom’s gut churn. He ignores the feeling, only smiles at her kindness (and mentally asks himself if it’s a prank), and hopes she won’t let go. He doesn’t know why, but he sure knows he’ll stall this grocery shopping for as long as possible.

From now on, even his usual store is done with renovations, his grocery store is this one. He can’t explain why, but he does like the small bubbles that bump around in his gut. And since Y/N’s touch isn’t one he’s used to, he will hold on as long as he can. 

—

Students file into the classroom as Tom puts down his bag. He leans against the teacher’s desk and watch as they take their seats, pulling out laptops and notebooks. As the clock nears, the chatter dies down. Tom takes one last glance at the door, hoping it opens one more time. 

But it stays shut. As predicted. 

He turns to face his students. Some watch the door and some watch him.

“Professor Y/L/N won’t be here today.” Two weeks ago, that would have been some of the best news. He would’ve been happy he could teach without her comments getting in the way. However, now it feels almost …wrong. The classroom feels empty without her in it. 

One of the students yells out ‘Why?’. 

Tom plaster on a smile. “She has other matters to attend to. She will be back tomorrow for anyone who has her in other classes.”

“What else does she have to do?” asks someone from the back. 

“I can’t say. If you’re lucky, maybe she will tell if you ask when she comes back.” He lets out a sigh. “Either way, today I am giving you the opportunity to work on the stories you have due tomorrow night. Talk to each other, ask me questions, use the time you have and the tools here for you the best you can.”

_That_ creates some smiles, at least. Tom is relieved he doesn’t have to do much. He can’t help but feel the sting of Y/N’s absence like a knife to his heart. 

If only he could figure out why. 

—

The night air folds around Tom in a way it usually doesn’t. He tries to have the night walks with Bobby be a little before dark has settled, but today neither he nor the dog had been up to go out before. 

Still, he quite likes the walk today. He likes the peace that comes from being alone out in the dark. He likes the few sounds he hears from the few insects and animals that are up and about when he would be asleep (or just sitting up late to work). He likes the way his thoughts can run freely and he can relax in the walk, instead of feeling tense at what comes around the corner. 

Tom lets his mind wander. 

To the earlier days of the week. To the classes he’s had. Through the feeling that it’s Saturday night and he can relish in the thought of another day to relax. 

A smile spreads across his lips. Bobby stops to pee, and Tom closes his eyes, feeling the wind brush past his face. He lets out a content sigh, and walks again as he feels a little tug on Bobby’s leash. 

He opens his eyes. As they travel across the green grass at the side of the road and over the houses that line his neighborhood, he thinks through all that has changed within the last few weeks. A month has gone by of the first semester and he can’t help but feel that there’s finally been some kind of development. At last, Y/N seems to like his company. Y/N seems to find less reason to hate him. She seems to maybe, _maybe_ , want to be his friend rather than his enemy. And _God_ , he hopes she does. He could use her as a friend, use her as someone to talk to, though he would like to tease her every now and then. He would like to be close to her. He has since the first day they met. 

He knows what he did, yet he doesn’t understand why it would make someone hate him. He’d tried his best to make her feel welcome, like she belonged. Yet, somehow he’d fired a shot in the wrong direction because after that Christmas Party, she’d blown off any attempt he had at talking to her. 

Tom sighs, casting a glance at Bobby who walks in front him happily. He tries to let his thoughts wander to something else than Y/N’s hatred for him, but his mind seems set on picturing the way her brows crease together and her eyes stare daggers at him when she’s mad. There’s something almost cute with it. 

_Wait, did he just think that?_

He shakes away the thought. Maybe late night walks aren’t that great after all. Though the flip of his heart and the sting in his gut, that ache in a _good_ way, seem to argument against that. 


	8. Y/N Y/L/N

It’s deathly annoying to relay the message to your best friend, and Benedict, and to the other few people (that’s a lie; there are no other people) you’d told about your payback on Hiddleston. Reality is; he’s just too kind. Yeah, you can be a bitch, but there’s a limit to how big of a bitch. 

Still, it sucks to not do a carefully planned out prank which would peg him down a notch and also (was supposed to) make him lose a little bit of the reputation he carries around that does him no good―honestly you’re getting sick of it. 

But you can’t do anything now. 

Hiddleston is just _too_ nice. He offered to drive you home more than once last week after he did so two weeks ago. He offered to help you with your research―how he would be of help neither you nor he knows, but he offered and they say it’s the thought that counts. And worst of all, when you’d complained about Chris’s last day being Thursday, _he_ had offered to take the whole Creative Writing class, giving you the chance to spend more time with the one week fling you’d had. 

There is just too much nice emanating from the person that is Hiddleston, and it’s getting on your nerves because you can’t be mean anymore. Now, mean makes you sound like even more of a bitch than you can be at times, and the times when you’re actually being a bitch, you sound even worse. That is a problem.

Maybe that’s a new reason for hating Hiddleston; he is so nice you can’t hate him that he makes you look like a horrible person―which is very wrong (though not always)―and he doesn’t even look guilty about it. 

The _audacity_. 

He even has the audacity to look kind of… _handsome?_ … where he sits across from you in the café. This had been your idea, as a thank you for letting you cut class and go on that date. You’d asked Friday night, before you left to enjoy your weekend. 

_“Hey, I just wanted to thank you again,” you said. “You hadn’t had to do that.”_

_He waved it off and gave you a smile. “No, it’s okay. I hope it was worth it, though? Did you get to say a proper goodbye?”_

_You nodded. “Yeah, it was really nice. But, as a repaying, what do you say we grade these stories together? Over coffee? Sunday, maybe?”_

To be honest, you hadn’t expected him to say yes. And you’d both established there is nothing more to it than wanting to grade the first stories together, and a way for you to give back what you feel you owe.

But it annoys you that the thought drunk you had so many weeks ago has to linger at the back of your mind. _Now_ of all times. It’s not like you haven’t thought so before―you can’t deny facts. 

Hiddleston is handsome, always has been and probably always will be. But that doesn’t mean he has to dress up for work and coffee with you. After all, he isn’t supposed to like you very much, yet there he sits;

His ginger hair is slicked back, curling up under his ear and in his neck. Every now and then he adjusts his glasses, either by lifting them entirely or by using his middle finger to push them back―considering how much he does the latter, you’re almost certain he’s sending you a message, one you would expect, but because everything else seems wrong, the message seems like something else. The blue eyes he hides behind the frames flicker over the words on his screen with an intensity you haven’t seen before. He keeps looking at it, scrutinizing the story and continuously making notes―the sound of his keyboard is slowly getting on your nerves. 

But, to be fair, it’s his clothes that triggers the handsome thought most. He wears the same sweater as always, dark blue that clings to his arms but falls a little everywhere else. The pants he wears are the same as always. The first time you saw the look, when you first met him, it was fancy and sophisticated, but now it feels old. 

Yet, at this very moment, it suits him in such a way it’s almost… You don’t have a word for it, but the way it has you swallow a lump in your throat and try to refocus your attention on the words on your screen doesn’t sit well. 

Benedict may have been right in assuming you’ve never really hated him, but that does not mean you like-like him. He’s handsome, you were attracted from the first moment you laid eyes on him, and that’s it. There’s nothing else to it. 

Drunk you probably admitted to him being handsome. Drunk you tried to say you like him, have a crush. Drunk you is known for being wrong. Plus, mixed with sleep deprived you, they are both known for making rash decisions. 

You shake your head. There is no need for this mindset, no need to contemplate Hiddleston, or his looks. All you have to do is read this story, comment on it and grade it. And then do that with the next one, and the next, and hope that you’re not too caught up in thoughts to not properly do your job. 

_No._

You can do it. You can read the sentence. 

You can’t read the sentence. Nope, it’s all blurry. _Fuck_. “Uhh, I’m just gonna go… you know,” you say softly and gesture in the direction of the restrooms. 

Hiddleston looks up at you and nod, no real expression on his face. And is fast to turn back to the task at hand―if you’re correct he’s probably already read and graded a third of his stories. You’re still stuck on the first one. 

But you shake that thought off as well, get up and find the restroom. 

You close the door behind you and take a deep breath. There should be no reason for this, no reason for everything to bubble to the surface because something changed in the last month that distorts the ideal you got from him from the last three and a half years. 

The Christmas Party is a long time since. He’s probably forgotten, even if you haven’t. After all, it’s within you the guilt lies. _Oh, I wish I could hate him_. 

You shake your head and move to the sinks. Despite wearing some make-up, you turn on the sink and splash your face with cold water. It runs down your skin in a tickling manner, but it’s better than the heat that had made its way there. If you blush in his presence, so much as show any sign of weakness, blood will be spilled, and it will be yours. 

A deep sigh and a dry of your face makes for five minutes later. Where all you do is stare at the face in the mirror and ask what’s going on. But you know what’s going on; you’re becoming friends, or at least colleagues that can work together. 

So you nod, walk back out and sit down across from him with a newfound sense of courage and confidence. It makes it easier to concentrate on the work ahead, easier to concentrate on the story in front of you. 

_God, I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurence._

—

Being told there’s a Monday morning meeting is not the news you need when you step into the teacher’s lounge to steal a cup of coffee. Literally anything but the news of a morning meeting would be fine―especially when the person relaying the news is Hiddleston with somewhat of a smirk playing on his face that grows bigger when you groan loudly. He may be nice, but he still has some spark left. 

You walk together into the meeting room, where every professor have crammed themselves inside. There are no free chairs and the two of you lean against the wall in the back, hoping it’ll be over before it even starts. 

“You know what this is about?” you ask Hiddleston. 

He shakes his head. “Not a clue. Maybe there’s some change in something?” 

You cock a brow. “Change in what? Pay? Could use a raise now that I think about it.”

The comment gets a chuckle as a response, which has you smile triumphantly. Hiddleston doesn’t say more before Dean McHallan stands at the front with a nervous smile and a note card in his hands. 

“Hello everyone, so lovely that you could all take the time out of your morning to cram in here. I know it’s a bit crowded, but I hope you can bear with me,” he says with a small smile. The chatter dies down and every professor looks at the dean. “Now, what I have to say will probably surprise a few of you, but also make some happy. We have been asked to do a play in front of the students.” A groan erupts amongst the faculty, quickly hushed by McHallan. “Not long, it will only last for about a month with only one show, but with a message we want to give. Now, the play was written by our lovely drama teacher,” ―he gestures to a woman who stands at the side with a big smile― “and we have already figured out who should play the parts, seeing as there might be a rather few number of you who actually would volunteer to participate.”

McHallan sends a new smile out in the room. “Now, let’s see here.” He pulls the paper closer to him. “The male lead has been handed to Tom Hiddleston.” 

There’s a little cheer, but mostly uninterested clapping. With the exception of the drama teacher who looks Hiddleston’s way with a big smile and a flirtatious flutter of her lashes. Hiddleston himself gives a smile and nods, accepting the role just like that―probably not too weird seeing as the man always wanted to make it as an actor. 

You whisper a congrats to your coworker, who gives you a tight lipped smile in return. 

The dean coughs to get the attention back to him. “Now, for the female lead.” He takes a break, gaze travelling over the women in the room. “Y/N Y/L/N!” 

You blink. Frown. Stare at McHallan, who shoots you a smile from where he stands at the other end of the room. Hiddleston mumbles congrats and laughs at your expression. Most shrug, not really caring, but a kind of shriek erupts and everyone turns to see the drama professor glaring your way. 

“Excuse me,” she says, “how can _she_ get the female lead in a play _I_ wrote?” She gestures to herself. “Drama teacher,” then to you, “history teacher. Do you not have eyes?” 

“I agree with that, she can get the role if she wants to,” you say nodding. 

Of course, McHallan shakes his head and in your peripheral vision you see Hiddleston shake his, too. “We picked names from a hat, everyone has been assigned something so don’t go crazy from one role, okay?”

That discussion went over fast. You sigh and roll your eyes at Hiddleston’s smug expression, and then listen as McHallan lists the other characters and who were assigned them (Benedict got a tree, though he looks happy about it). 

—

The students file into the classroom as you read through the script. You read through it last night, or some of it, but you need to know if you read correctly at that last part. Because if you did―well, it won’t go well. For anyone.

“Awfully dedicated for someone who doesn’t want the role,” comments Hiddleston. 

You look up at him to see him put down his bag and shrug. “Did you know that the interaction in this between the two leads is the opposite of ours?” 

He nods. “I read through it last night. Not sure how you’ll pull it off.” 

“‘Not sure how you’ll pull it off’,” you mimic, “excuse me, but they kiss! They _kiss_.” 

“What are you worrying about? It’s just a kiss.” Hiddleston smirks and you swallow the feeling that shoots up at the thought of kissing him. You’re not sure whether you want to throw up or just need to eat something, but the twisting in your gut is not one of pleasure. 

Shaking off the thought, you put down the script and look up at the students in front of you. The chatter flows through the room, some seeming to be about what you just put down. Hiddleston coughs for attention and it quiets down, but their interest is piqued and a few hands shoot into the air. You nod for one of the boys on the first row to speak.

“Is that paper you were holding the reason you weren’t here on Thursday? Are you going to leave for an acting job?” 

You shake your head. “No, the paper and my absence on Thursday do not correlate. And no, I am not leaving for an acting job, because that script is for a play we professors are putting on for you guys.”

If it’s possible for multiple people to share a frown, that is what the thirty students do. “Why? And who are you playing?” a voice asks from the back row. 

“We were lucky enough to get the leads,” says Hiddleston and you roll your eyes. 

“Correction. He was lucky, I was unlucky because I do not want it.” 

Another ‘why?’ pops up. 

“First, I am no actor. Second, I’ll be playing opposite this dude and the two leads are love interests. I am not… I just don’t think I’m good enough of an actor.” You shake your head and press your lips together. 

“Can you show us some?” asks a voice in the middle. You can’t detect who said it, but you would love to let them know never to ask that, but before you can answer no, Hiddleston nods, says loudly ‘yes, sure’ and pulls out his script. 

You glare at him and try to put on a mask for the students. Some laugh seeing your resignation as you pick up the script again. “What do you want to see?” you ask, not wanting to choose anything. 

A chant of kiss scene erupts and your mind goes blank. _That’s where we are, wow great._

Hiddleston smirks, the same one as before. “Afraid of playing out some of it? Maybe they’ll boost your confidence enough to go through with this?” 

You sigh. “I wish I got the same role as Benedict. I would die just to play a tree.”

But that doesn’t help now and you find the―thankfully― _only_ kiss scene in the script. It’s near the end with a long dialogue before it happens. Already now, your gut churns at the thought, nerves creeping up your arms and back, filling you with dread. This will never turn out good, especially not when you’re acutely aware of your students stares―at least they’re more attentive than usual.

“For context sake,” says Hiddleston, “before this a lot of things have happened that have caused the two characters to be rather wary of each other.” 

You nod, sigh and look down in the script. You don’t know the words by a long shot, but you know Hiddleston starts at least. And then he does. 

“ _I’m sorry._ ” You look up at Hiddleston and see the regretful look he sends you. “ _I didn’t mean to… it sort of happened._ ”

A deep breath. “ _How does that matter? That’s not an excuse, nor an apology_.” 

Hiddleston takes a few steps closer to you. Your heart pounds in your head reading over the words he’s about to say. “ _No, it’s not. But it’s the best I have._ ” You look up and lock eyes with him, lock eyes with deep blue, so full of regret, eyes. “ _I love you_.”

Your throat feels dry but you look back down in the script. “ _Not enough_ ,” you say and despite the fact that you should look up and in his eyes, yours stay trained on the script. 

“ _How much is enough? What else do I have to do to prove my love?_ ” Hiddleston tilts your chin up with a finger― _god he’s a good actor_ ―and you see the sadness that coats his face. “ _I would kill for you, love. I would_ ―”

“ _It doesn’t matter what you would._ ” You look back down in the script, losing Hiddleston’s gentle touch. “ _It matters what you did._ ” You take a step back, creating bigger distance between the two of you. 

Hiddleston meets your look and then glances down in the script. “ _Tell me what I can do. There has to be something._ ” 

You swallow the lump in your throat. You ignore your gut wrenching, the sweat coating your back and the obvious tension that lies like a blanket over the room. In your peripheral view you can see the students watch the two of you with curious interest, but instead, you let the pause break and open your mouth.

“ _Let me punch you._ ”

There’s a snicker in the student audience but your eyes are trained on Hiddleston’s reaction. He sighs, nods and opens his arms. “ _As hard as you need to._ ”

In the script, your character walks back to him, so you do the same. It says to lightly punch him, to act as if you take out your frustration by repeatedly hitting his chest and then, with tears streaming down your face, curl into it and let him embrace you. To be honest, you could use the hug, and you could use the punching bag. So you lightly do what it says, not really punch him but you make it look like that, and for some reason you’re comfortable enough to act like you’re crying and curl into Hiddleston’s chest. His strong arms secure you tightly, and you feel the heat rise in every inch of your body by how close you are. 

And then it’s the kissing part. You’ve read it more times than you can count. You know the words, the acting. But you don’t want to admit to it. 

The students are all quiet, probably leaning close and you hear someone whisper about the kiss coming soon. 

You pull from the embrace, though still close to him you look up at Hiddleston. He looks down at you, a pained smile on his face―completely in character―and then the words, spoken as a whisper, “ _Kiss me._ ”

Thankfully, _oh so thankfully_ , Hiddleston smiles and pulls away, turning to face the students and bowing. You use a moment to realize what’s happening, but do the same as him and plaster on a smile. It’s not like your heart is beating a mile a minute. Like you wanted the kiss, no you didn’t. That’s silly. Weird. 

No, you shake it away, take the compliments that you are more than a good enough actor, and then relish in getting to actually start class. There are other, more important things than a play happening, and one of them is to teach a class. 

—

Lunch on Friday doesn’t come fast enough. After a class and then using your spare time―usually used for research, grading papers or planning classes―have gone to learning to play a role you don’t want to play, you need the break. The drama teacher, albeit angry about the whole ordeal, helps you out whenever she can and you’re grateful to her for her help, especially in knowing what message she wants to come across with the play, but it’s tiring. 

You slump down in the chair across from Benedict, mumbling a ‘hi’ to him and Eddie. They both cock their brows in you direction but neither says anything as you bite into the sandwich you prepared that morning. 

“Grumpy today, or?”

You divert your gaze to Hiddleston, who sits down in the free chair and places his lunch on the table. “Oh, how nice of you to comment on the fact that I don’t enjoy seeing your face.” 

He chuckles. “Sorry, what’s going on?”

“The usual this week. McHallan said we’re doing this for a month with one show, and I don’t wanna do this at all. The show we had on Tuesday was more than enough,” you say and take another bite. 

“Is she hard on you?” 

You finish chewing before answering, swallowing with your hand in front of your mouth―manners, right? “Hard? She glares at me during the entire thing. I bet she wrote it all just to be able to play the lead herself and kiss whoever got the male lead, and considering how happy she was when that was you I bet you’re that person.”

“Wait?” Benedict gets your attention. “You have to kiss?”

“Yes, Mr. Ignorant, we do.”

Benedict holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I find it amusing. But either way, I don’t have the script since I have no lines and… thank you for the information.”

You roll your eyes and take another bite of your sandwich. 

Hiddleston smiles, amused probably. “She’s a little mad about that part. Especially after Tuesday and we showed a scene for our students and they ended up writing small paragraphs of us as a couple. They are, I think it’s called ‘shipping’ us now.”

“Oh, tell them welcome aboard. A lot of us have been doing that for a while now.” Benedicts comment only gets him a glare from you, something Eddie seems to find very funny, so you send one his way, too. 

“I just don’t see why we have to. I don’t want to kiss his ugly face,” you say. 

“It’s a play. It won’t last long,” replies Hiddleston. 

You press your lips together and find the picture you sent of it to Y/BFF/N earlier in the week. “It says here ‘kiss for thirty seconds, tongue is appreciated’. They want us to make out in front of the whole college. Excuse me but I can barely stand your face. The only good that would come of it is that I would have my eyes closed and wouldn’t have to look at you.”

“Well, at least you know what’s it like to make out with someone with a beard,” comments Benedict. 

You count to ten in your head. “I’m going to let that slide because I don’t hate you, but you are on thin ice. Be sure I’m not certain I want to help you next week after all. However, I’m there for your kids and not you, so you might be lucky.”

Eddie snickers from where he sits, a grin on his face and eyes flickering between you and Benedict. “To be honest, I thought this would be a quieter table, but I was wrong. I don’t mind, though.”

Hiddleston smiles. “Had she not been here, it would have been. But a little less fun, though.” 

You sigh and decide not to comment. It’s neither worth it, nor do you really have a good comment. At least he called you fun. 

—

Usually, you wouldn’t make the trip to the store on a Saturday meant to be inside and do nothing. Yet, there you find yourself, walking determinedly to the hot chocolate section and picking up a box of powder to make instant hot chocolate. On the way to the register, you swing by the candy department and grab your favorite chocolate. 

_Yeah, it’s that time of the month_. 

You manage to grab with you a bag of chips as well, and some berries, and _oh, pastries look so good_. Yup, chocolate donuts it is. 

As you stand in line, you’re certain you saw a ginger bob of curly hair. And you’re correct, as Hiddleston comes to stand in the queue behind you. 

“That’s a lot of chocolate,” he says and you nod. “Baking something? Or just relishing in it being Saturday?”

You nod. “Sure, we can say those are the reasons.”

“Oh, _oh._ Sorry, I don’t think that far.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t think about it, it’s really nothing. I’m just grateful there’s not much pain right now.”

Hiddleston nods. “I have heard that isn’t exactly lovely.”

“So,” you say, “what are you doing here?” You place the items you have―which became more than planned―on the conveyor belt, putting one of those rectangles to separate your items from Hiddleston’s and the guy in front of you. 

“Here for a last minute shopping, really. Found out I lacked some food,” he says. 

You nod. “Food is smart, that’s true.” 

“Yeah.”

The silence lasts after that until you get your total. You put your card in and type the code and press ok and… rejected. “That’s.. I’ll just try again.” And rejected. 

_Fuck_.

“Let me pay.” Hiddleston looks at you, a trying expression on his face, but you don’t have much choice. 

“I’m paying you back,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He nods. “Sure, you are.” He smiles at the woman behind the register when it goes through and says yes to the receipt. You snatch it from him and put it down in the bag you bag your groceries in. It’s not much, but it’s enough and you saw the price, you _will_ pay him back. 

You wait for him to bag his own items before exiting the store together. When you near your car, you glance at him. “I will pay you back.”

“You need information to do that.” 

“I have my ways.” 

He nods. “Benedict, I presume?”

You nod. “Yeah, see you Monday.”

“Bye.”

And then you get in your car with a churning gut, a sweat-ridden back and the feeling that you might not be able to pay him back. But at the same time feeling a strong need to punch him for being such a gentleman.

He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to do anything. 

Which is exactly what makes it so hard to ignore that flutter in your stomach at the thought of him.


	9. Tom Hiddleston

“Hey, good job, take five, okay?” 

Tom nods and moves to get a water bottle. Y/N does the same, almost emptying hers in a matter of seconds. He shakes his head and goes back to drinking from his own bottle. 

The drama teacher (who is less annoyed now that she was appointed director of the play) has them work together every day. It’s been a little over a week since the play was announced and the drama teacher, set on having this be the best production set up by the faculty, is working them to the brim. He has less time to grade papers, come up with new and exciting tasks for his students, and actually work on what he’s supposed to. 

The only upside to the play? He gets to spend time with Y/N. Weirdly enough, that has become an upside. He doesn’t know when the change came, or how exactly it happened, but it did and he isn’t complaining. 

Tom sets down his water bottle as the drama teacher comes up to him. She has this smile on her face Tom doesn’t enjoy, but he returns her smile with a polite one. 

“Hi, Tom,” she says, her voice overly sweet, “you’re doing a great job. Mind making Y/N do the same? She doesn’t seem to be too into this.”

He glances over at Y/N, who stand with the script in hand, reading through the scene they’re working on. Not every line sits, but most of Tom’s does. Y/N hasn’t had the easiest route there. “I think she’s doing the best she can,” he replies, “don’t worry, the play will come out great.”

The drama teacher doesn’t seem happy with his answer, but she doesn’t comment on it and goes back to her seat. In a rather annoyed tone, she yells “okay, let’s take it from the top of the scene. _Again_.”

—

He leans down, eyes locked with Y/N’s. His heart beats faster, and faster. Heat traces his back. They’re so close, he can feel her closeness. And then―

“Cut!” 

Y/N scrambles out of his grip, a polite smile plastered on her face but a thankful glimt in her eyes. Tom returns it, though his heart sinks to the bottom of his gut. It’s not that he’s so eager to kiss her, it’s more that he doesn’t understand what’s so bad about kissing _him_. 

They probably weren’t going to actually kiss until the play was acted. There was no way that would happen. 

—

She moves across the stage in hurried steps. Anger seeps out of her eyes, smoke out of her ears and fire out of her nostrils. “You… _Asshole_.” 

Tom moves back. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry?” she asks, voice incredulous. “That’s all you have to say in your defense. A tiny little sorry.” 

He stays quiet. The silence stretches out. 

“Incredible.” She shakes her head, walks past him and sighs. With a last look behind her at him, she walks off the stage. 

—

The sound of keyboards being used, of voices whispering to each other and of continuous sighs fills the open room of the lecture hall. Tom watches as the students type away, notes how some make grimaces as the write, some mouth the words, and some uses a notebook to help them. 

To his right stands Y/N, eyes traveling over the students looking for the same as him; a hand risen, needing help. He doesn’t find anyone, and neither does his coworker. “I think they got the hang of it,” he tells her. 

She nods. “Yeah, I’m just scared of what they’re writing. Kind of sick of all those couple stories of us.” 

Tom presses his lips together and nods in agreement. “Those aren’t very appropriate, are they?” he asks. 

Y/N shakes her head. “Not really.” She shrugs. “I don’t know, Tom. This play is draining my energy.”

“Yes, mine, too.” He sighs. “It’s taking time away from what I would like to do, which is my work.”

Y/N nods. “Exactly.”

—

Usually, Tom goes straight from his office and to the classroom, but today he needs a big cup of coffee, and with some extra minutes to spare, he makes his way to the teacher’s lounge. 

The room is empty save for one woman standing by the coffee machine. He recognizes the back of her head, and isn’t surprised when Y/N turns around and sits down in the first chair she finds. 

Tom goes to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup. He relishes in the fresh smell; knowing it’s fresh and newly made makes it even better. With the cup firmly placed in his hands, heating them up a little, he sits down across from Y/N who looks half-asleep with her cup lifted up to her face. 

Neither of them say anything. Neither of them have to, as the silence is more than enough. 

It takes a few minutes before Y/N puts down her mug. She frowns at Tom, her brows drawn together and a squinting look on her face. She tilts her head, presses her lips together and leans forward. “I think I’m wrong, but there’s something on your mug.”

Tom frowns, removing the mug from his face and giving it a check. “I can’t see something.”

“Oh, it’s gone now.” She shrugs. 

He takes a sip, and sees a smile form on Y/N’s face. “It’s back now.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha, very funny,” he replies. 

She nods. “Yeah, I know. Too tired to really make an effort, I guess.” 

“I suppose that isn’t so weird.” 

—

It’s the end of the week. Finally, Friday, and all Tom can think about is getting a break. Said break will mostly include grading papers and working, but a break nonetheless. 

However, before he gets there, he has two hours confined to the space that is the university’s auditorium. They’ve been practicing for two weeks, and they have two more, but the drama teacher insists to go on stage and have the spotlight directed at the two of them. 

Y/N stands centerstage, squinting out to the audience with a scrunched up nose and downturned mouth. A picture of the feeling Tom has in his gut. There are some people in the audience (Benedict said ‘wouldn’t miss it for the world’ and dragged Eddie with him, and if Tom isn’t wrong, sent a text to your friend about the little ‘show’ as he’d put it), and despite the bright light in his eyes, he can see their outlines. Benedict, Eddie and Y/BFF/N all sit in the front row with excited grins on their faces. 

“Which scene are we taking?” asks Y/N, holding her arm up over her eyes to not go blind. 

A small chant of ‘kiss scene’ sounds from the first row and Tom suppresses a smile when Y/N directs a glare in a certain trio’s direction. 

“I thought we could do the kiss scene, and maybe you actually kiss today,” replies the drama teacher, “you need to do it once before the actual show. The more, the better.” A whistle and a yell of ‘woohoo’ follows. 

Tom shakes his head, but nods. “From the top, or?” 

“Do the scene before and then the kiss scene, and we’ll take it from there.” 

Tom nods again and retreats behind the curtain. He watches in his peripheral vision as Y/N does the same, only to drag a chair out on stage and sit down. Script in hand and eyes closed, she leans back. The light from the spotlight cascades over her, showing off her features and a thought runs at the back of Tom’s mind. A thought he chooses to ignore. 

“Action,” says a disinterested voice from the audience. 

Tom’s eyes follows as Y/N stretches in the chair. She fakes a yawn and presses her lips together. The silence stretches on as Y/N moves about on stage. To not wanting to do this in the first place, and not thinking herself a good actor, she knows how to captivate the stage without saying a single thing. 

His heart beats faster, knowing what’s about to happen. There aren’t many characters in the play, as it focuses mainly on the two leads, but there are a few scenes with one of the leads and someone of a lesser role. 

A doorbell noise rings across the speakers. Y/N moves about to the edge of the stage, and walks back with professor Bettany. There aren’t any lines in the scene, only silence and the act of things. The way Bettany moves his mouth, a whisper across the stage, and the reaction on Y/N’s face. If Tom isn’t wrong, an actual tear rolls down your cheek. 

There’s a gasp from the audience, and Tom diverts his view to see Y/N’s best friend leaning forward to watch with intense interest. And the lights go. 

Tom walks to his position on the stage. He can see Y/N take her place at the other end. And despite the little want in his beating heart and his clammy hands, the kiss scene doesn’t end in a kiss. 

Both to his, the trio in the front row and the director’s dismay. Exactly what Y/N thinks, Tom isn’t sure because all he ever sees is your relieved face when your lips don’t touch, making him ache in every way.


	10. Y/N Y/L/N

The next two weeks goes by in a blur. You are exhausted every day when you come home, only to have to work even more because every free period you have is used for the play. A play you don’t even want to participate in. 

But at least, tomorrow is Friday after four weeks of the play. Tomorrow is the day you perform it in front of the students. 

It’s the last hours of the work day. Your students buzz with energy, chattering with each other as they finish the task you and Tom put them to. You can hear their voices, all asking each other about the play; the only reason the place even buzzes of energy. 

Tom walks over to you after he’s done helping one of the boys in the front row. The smile on his face is enough to warrant a groan from you, which only makes the smile bigger. “You know,” he says, “they’re all writing ways the play could go tomorrow.” 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I figured considering that’s what they’re talking to each other about.” You drag your hand through your hair. “But, honestly, I’m a little relieved that it’ll all be over after tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t think it will.” 

You cock a brow in Tom’s direction. 

He shrugs. “Well, if you take into account how they’ve been ‘shipping’ us since we went through the kiss scene a month ago, and the fact that we did not kiss then but will tomorrow. It will only give them more fuel to the fire.”

“Oh, God.” You drag your hand down along your face. A groan and a sigh comes from you in the gesture. To your side, you can hear Tom’s small laugh. “I hope something happens before it.”

“I don’t understand your problem with it,” voices Tom. There’s a slight oddness to his voice, one you can’t pinpoint exactly but it sounds almost hurt. 

You chance a look at him, afraid of the expression on his face. But it doesn’t show the extra layer to his voice, rather he smiles. A little teasingly. 

“I don’t have a problem with the kiss,” you say, rolling your eyes, “I have a problem with the consequences.”

“What consequences? It’s a play, are there really that many?”

You nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah.” You take a deep breath. “Our students aren’t the only ones that ship us, you know? Benedict does, and I’m pretty sure he has Sophie doing the same, and I was at theirs this weekend, and _Kit_ asked _me_ about _you_ , something he has never done before. Also, I’m pretty sure there are more people, but just… as you said, it will only add fuel to the fire.”

Tom nods along with what you say, but he doesn’t look convinced. He replies with a shrug, and walks away to go around and check on the students. To take your mind off it, you do the same. 

It doesn’t help nearly as well as you wish it to. 

—

The backstage room is filled with people. It feels surreal to be back there, dressed up in clothes you never really wear because, admittedly, this dress is too fancy but you needed some costume. 

It’s ten minutes until you start, and the students have filled into the auditorium with glee. Most of your own, you find on the first rows. They all chatter with each other, everyone over the other so you can’t hear what they say. 

“Anxious?” 

Tom stands behind you when you turn around, a smile on his face. Something tingles in your gut at the sight of him wearing a tux. It fits him like it’s tailored, and you dare believe it is. The shirt sits tight enough to reveal a fit torso, and even though your head tells you to keep the thoughts locked away, you can’t help but admire him. 

Then, remembering his question, you nod. 

His smile grows bigger. “That’s good,” he replies. 

You glare at him. “How’s that good? I’m so anxious I kind of want to throw up.”

Tom shakes his head, smile still plastered on his lips. “It’s good because being nervous will help you. If you’re not nervous for doing something like this then the probability of screwing up grows bigger.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, but I’ll let it slide.” 

“Five minutes, people.” The drama teacher’s voice rings across and you take a deep breath.

Tom gives you a reassuring smile before going to find his place. Perched on the couch that stands out on the stage, with professor Bettany at his side, he looks even better than he did in front of you. He looks like he’s on display, but also like he wants to be. 

You scatter to your place, which is at the end of the stage. You need to be ready to walk in at your cue, and it is fairly early. But at least, you feel as prepared as you could be. It’s just one show, and as soon as that’s over, everything will fall back into place and hopefully, you won’t be as exhausted as you have been feeling lately. 

—

“You can do it,” whispers an encouraging voice in your ear as you scatter out on the stage again, finding your place. 

You shoot a thankful smile to Benedict, take a deep breath and return your gaze to the man across the stage. Who gives you subtle thumbs up before the spotlight goes on and you return to your characters. 

“I’m sorry.” Tom’s voice rings across the stage, and even from where you stand, the regretful expression on his face reaches you. “I didn’t mean to… it sort of happened.”

You take a deep breath. “How does that matter? That’s not an excuse, nor an apology.”

Tom takes a few long strides. Your heart pounds in your chest as he moves closer. “No, it’s not,” he says. You look up and into his eyes. Lock yours with his deep blue and full of regret. You catch yourself before you mime his line with him. “But it’s the best I have.” He takes a pause, takes one step closer. “I love you.”

The crowd goes wild at the words. In your peripheral vision, you can see the students lean forward in their seats. 

With a dry throat and a hammering heart, you turn your attention back to Tom. “Not enough,” you say, and his expression turns more regretful, more hurt. 

“How much is enough?” Tom comes closer and uses a finger to tilt your chin up. Sadness coats his face, linger in his blue eyes. “What else do I have to do to prove my love? I would kill for you. I would―”

“It doesn’t matter what you would.” You take a step back, losing his touch from your chin. Your eyes still locked with his, but you take another step, creating a bigger distance. “It matters what you did.”

Tom’s eyes look hurt, more hurt than just an act. He glances down, takes a deep breath, and looks up at you again. “Tell me what I can do. There has to be something.”

Your gut wrenches, sweat coats your back, and you swallow the lump in your throat. The students watches you with curious interest. Your gut feels hollow at that, the tension a blanket over the auditorium, pinning you down. 

You open your mouth, uttering the words that weighs you down. 

“Let me punch you.”

As when you showed it to the students, a snicker comes from the back. Your eyes don’t waver from Tom’s, trained in on his reaction. 

He nods. A sigh escapes his lips and he opens his arms in defeat. “As hard as you need to.”

With hesitating steps, you walk over to him. You stagger a little, and stop inches from him. Light punches start it off, just trying punches, seeing how much you can give. Then you go a little harder (or make it look like it), and tears stream down your face. You punch more and more and more, until you fall limp against Tom’s chest and he embraces you. You curl into him, feel his strong arms securely around you. The heat rises in you, on your back, on your arms, every inch.

The auditorium is a big room of silence. It lies over you, over everyone. All waiting for what’s to come. You’ve read the part a thousand times. You played out the lines a thousand times. But the actual kiss has never come. 

You hate to admit, that this time, you want it to. 

You pull a little from his embrace. His arms are still around you, placed gently at your waist. Your hands are splayed on his chest. You look up at him, lock eyes with his pained ones that show the pained smile on his face. 

The words comes as a whisper. It rings through the silence, falls over the blanket. It ripples through the crowd. 

“ _Kiss me_.”

—

_Remember!_

Your mind is blank. You can’t remember anything after you whispered ‘kiss me’. Your mind is a vast space of black until the curtains are drawn and the cheer erupts at a play well done. 

Even the little afterparty―the little trip to the bar with Tom, Benedict, Eddie, Bettany and some other colleagues―where everyone is talking about the play and the small things that went well, and the students’ reactions. 

You sit back, leaning against your chair and sipping your drink. The chatter from your colleagues fly by your ears. All you try to do is remember. 

You wanted to kiss him. You kind of still want to kiss him (not that you’ll ever tell him that). And you know you did. 

Yet you can’t remember doing it. 

“What has you all gloomy?” Benedict sits down in the chair next to you. The smile on his face has a teasing hint to it, and he raises his eyebrows suggestively. 

You roll your eyes. “Haha, very funny.” You regard him with a glare and when he doesn’t budge, you let out an exasperated sigh. “I just… I blacked out. I don’t remember anything after saying ‘kiss me’.”

Benedict’s smile falters. “You don’t remember? Anything?” 

You shake your head with a tight lipped smile. 

“But you want to? Because you weren’t that interested in kissing Tom in the first place.” He cocks a brow. 

“I… I don’t know. I just… want to remember.” 

“Remember what?” Tom’s voice comes over your shoulder. 

You turn to look at him, faking a smile in his direction. He returns it, but his genuine. “Just an old memory. It’s not important.”

“Nonsense.” He takes a chair from the other table (no one is using it), and sits down. “Old memories are fun. You need any help remembering? Can I help?”

Benedict lets out a half grunt half giggle at your side. You glare at him, seeing him try to suppress his laughter. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But, yes, she needs help, Tom. I know exactly how you can help.”

You chance a glance back at Tom, who quirks a brow. “Oh?” he says. “How may I help?”

Your throat goes dry, your heart drums within your ribcage and your head feels like it’s about to fall off. As Benedict opens his mouth to answer―and you know he’s had a few beers―you down the rest of your drink and get up with the excuse of needing a new one. 

Just as you stand up, Benedicts words stumble out of his mouth. “You need to kiss her.”

And you scurry away faster than you thought possible. 

_Benedict did not just say that. He did not just say that. He did not just say that. He did not just say that_. 

Your hammering heart and the impending feeling of sweat running down your back says otherwise. Benedict said that. Benedict _knows_. 

Also, Benedict is going to eat shit when you’re sober. The professor will regret the day he meddled in your love life. 

You shake off the thoughts rushing through your head as you reach the bar. There’s a crowd gathering there and you have to wait before the bartender gets to you. When he does, you haven’t really thought through what you want. 

But a thought hits you and you know. 

“Two shots of vodka.” 

The man nods and gives it to you. Without any hesitation, you down both of them in a matter of seconds. The bartender gives you a raise of the brow, but rather shakes his head and tends to another customer. 

“That was fast.” 

Tom stands in front of you when you turn around. Something goes off in your gut at the sight of him, as he’s wearing the tux he wore earlier. The jacket is off and you can’t stop your tongue from wetting your lips at the sight of him in his white shirt. He isn’t wearing a tie and the top two buttons are open, displaying some of his chest. 

Right there and then, you kind of want to die. But you just took two shots of vodka and as soon as those get to you, life will hopefully be good again. 

“Benedict told me you don’t remember anything.” His voice is a smooth velvet in your ears. Deep, soulful and you really want him to keep talking. 

You nod. “What did he say exactly?” 

“That you don’t remember anything after saying ‘kiss me’.” Tom’s look is indecipherable. Something in his blue eyes keep you on your toes, wondering if you’ll actually get to find out what it would be like to kiss him. “He told me to kiss you in hopes it would jog your memory.”

You press your lips together, holding yourself from uttering the words ‘kiss me’ and the words ‘I don’t think that’ll work’. Neither option would be good, or the first one could be, except you don’t want him to know you want to kiss him. 

“Could you tell me what’s going on?” 

You take a deep breath. “Okay, come with me.” You take his hand, dragging him with you to the back of the bar where there are scarcely any people. It’s dark back there, almost so that no one can see you. 

Tom regards you with suspicion. His lips pressed together as his eyes flicker across your face. “What is going on?” 

“I don’t remember the kiss, or the last scene or the applause. I don’t remember it, but I want to. I don’t want Benedict to tease me about something that I know happened, but that I can’t remember. I want to know what it felt like. I want to know… I want to―”

“You want me to kiss you?” Tom’s questions sounds genuine, curious. There’s no snark behind it, no teasing. Rather, it sounds like he understands. 

And despite every bone in your body telling you not to admit it. Telling you to shake your head no. Telling you to say the word no. You nod. 

Tom creeps closer to you where you sit. His face is inches from yours. His blue eyes dart between your eyes and your lips, a silent asking for permission. Not able to let it wait anymore, you close the distance. 

At first, it feels rather awkward. Your noses hit each other, you have to try again and when your lips meet now, you heat up. His hand cups your face, burning the skin under his touch. His lips move against yours, creating a firework of feelings in your gut. There’s something that happens during the kiss, something within you that lights your body on fire and you’re not sure you can feel anymore. 

And then Tom pulls away. “Happy?” he asks. 

You nod, even though you can’t remember the kiss during the play. You got the sense of feeling you knew would come from it. “Thanks,” you say. 

Tom nods, and stands up. With a tight-lipped smile and a little wave, he says bye and walks away. 

You stay behind in the shadow. Your heart hammers in your chest. You shake your head. It can’t be that way. It can’t be that way. It can’t be that way. 

But it is. 

You’re in the rabbit hole, deep down. And you’ve been there for years. Only now, the realization dawns on you that you are just as deep now as you were before. You never managed to get out. 

You’re in love with Tom Hiddleston, and you have been for the last four years.


	11. Tom Hiddleston

Since Friday, Tom’s mind has been set on the kiss. It has been set on the kiss in the bar. The one in the shadows where no one could see them and his heart pounded in his chest. The one where afterwards, so certain that Y/N just wanted to because she wanted to have some recollection of it, he had stood up and walked away as if it meant nothing. 

Even though it meant _everything_. 

He can recall every minute of it. Every second of what happened before and after is drilled into his brain after countless reenactments. 

The slight fear in her eyes as Benedict smiled and told Tom what he needed to do to jog her memory. The way she downed two shots in a matter of seconds and then shook her head a little as if it would get the taste away. The burn of his hand as she took his in hers, the touch scorching hot. The nervousness that floated in her beautiful eyes as she told him what was going on. The way his gut hurt when his lips met hers. The way his skin heated under her touch. The fireworks that erupted in every part of him, rooted in his stomach but exploded outwards into his veins. 

He remembers it all. And it felt just as hurtful as the kiss during the play. 

Tom got to kiss her twice, both times with the knowledge that, for her, it wasn’t something with feelings. It was something she had to do, and something she wanted to because she didn’t remember the first time. 

—

As Tom rings the doorbell, he vows to kill Benedict when the night is over. Not only does he have to wear a costume, he said yes to going trick or treating with the kids. Kit and Hal will make fun of him, so will Benedict and Sophie. 

At least, when the door opens and Y/N stands there in a costume, he feels better about it. She’s wearing a wine red, short dress with gears placed neatly around. The corset accentuates her waist, and the fingerless gloves makes her her arms look longer. Tom’s gaze stops at her legs, where she’s wearing kneehigh boots and flashing _a lot_ of skin. 

Tom’s heart drums in his chest and he has to tell himself not to stare. His gaze travels up again, which is when he notices the tophat. Gear-goggles placed neatly atop it, giving the steampunk vibe Tom supposes she’s going for. 

“Didn’t know you were coming?” she says and lets him in. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

“The same to you,” he replies, “Benedict didn’t mention it.” 

Y/N smiles. “You won’t see much of me though. I’m going trick and treating with the boys.” 

“I thought _I_ was going trick or treating with the boys?” 

Y/N’s brows crease. She doesn’t reply, only closes the door and walks into the living room. Moments later, Tom hears her annoyed tone as he follows after. She’s standing in front of Benedict, voice low but annoyed. “We agreed. We had an agreement.”

The older man shrugs with a smile. “I can’t recall that. When did we make this?” 

Y/N gives Benedict a playful punch in the arm and glares at him. She moves from him, glare still set on Benedict, and sits down by Kit. With one last glance at the kid’s father, a glare Tom is very glad he’s not on the receiving end of, she smiles and turns to Kit. 

“I honestly don’t understand how you can actually enjoy having her hate you,” says Benedict when Tom stops next to him. 

Tom shrugs. “It’s not too bad.” 

His best friend sends him a look.

He sighs. “It wasn’t that bad. Currently I wish things were slightly different.” Tom shakes his head. “When did you ask her to go trick or treating?” 

“Saturday?” 

“So, same time as you asked me?”

Benedict nods. “One adult per kid.”

Tom pats Benedicts back. “I think we’ll handle it.”

—

They walk down the street listening to Kit chatter. Tom holds Hal’s hand, the boy keeping himself a little ways from his brother’s constant talking. Y/N holds Kit’s hand, listening intently to the words the four year old says and smiling fondly at him. Something about the way she seems to beam whenever he does and replies to his talking as if the boy was her age, it makes a smile creep into Tom’s features. 

He tries to push down the extra sense of fluttering in his gut, but it’s hard. He can feel the nerves shoot around, telling him that he needs to be alert and that every minute they spend together is a step further. Yet his mind contradicts this, showing every scenario where she doesn’t like him. There are many. 

Yet, seeing her with Kit, he can’t keep his mind from going that way. It shows him pictures of what she would be like with her own kid. It shows him pictures of her smiling and laughing as she holds a baby. It shows him scenarios of dates they go on, or just sitting on the couch cuddling with a movie. 

Tom takes a deep breath and diverts his attention back to the two kids running to ring the doorbell of a house. He stands next to Y/N as they watch the kids, racking his brain for some way to start a conversation. 

“Did you remember to say thank you?” she asks as the two boys return. He lost his chance. 

Kit nods and Hal shakes his head. Y/N smiles and shakes hers, too. “Remember to next house, okay?” 

The boys nod, and Kit goes back to his chatter. 

Most of the night continues like that. Whenever the kids go away and get some more candy, Tom racks his brain for a conversation starter, but whenever he’s close to one or about to ask her something, the boys return and Kit takes up her attention. 

To be honest, Tom doesn’t really know what to do. There’s something he would like to say that he won’t ever say, and there’s something he would like to ignore or have go away as soon as possible. Those are the same things. 

Even worse, during classes both on Tuesday and earlier Today, their students kept diverting the subject. They got to teach something, and then as it bordered territory, the students shot out with the questions they wanted to. 

It is clear that the kiss during the play did nothing to stop the students from ‘shipping’ them. Rather it made the whole thing even worse. And it hasn’t made Tom’s life any easier. 

The clock ticks away, and finally the words come from Y/N. “Okay, last house and then we make our way back, okay?” 

Kit looks a little sad at that, but still nods. Hal nod furiously and decides not to join his brother to get some more candy. Instead he turns to Y/N and holds up his arms, clearly asking for her to carry him. With a sad smile, she does. The two year old lies his head down on her shoulder and, if Tom isn’t mistaken, closes his eyes.

“I bet Kit’s just as tired, he just doesn’t want to show it.” Y/N turns to Tom, the smile on her face turned to something less sad and more soft. 

Tom nods. “Probably.” 

God, he spends so much time trying to come up with a conversation starter and when she does first he can’t even make sure the conversation lasts? He’s an idiot. 

Kit comes back with a smile on his face and hops right back into his chatter. Now he seems to include Tom in it. Though Tom only half listens, nodding at the right places and catching Y/N’s soft laughter whenever it slips. He smiles himself whenever her smile brightens. Her eyes sparkling, her lips parting showing off a set of white teeth, her cheeks a tint of red. 

And as his eyes travels a little further he remembers that she’s barely wearing clothes. He takes in more of the little things. Like the slight red of her nose, the press of her lips together as if to keep her teeth from clattering, the way she shifts a little as she walks. 

He steps around Kit, whos walks between you, and over to your other side. Shifting off his jacket he doesn’t say anything as he moves a sleeping Hal from your shoulder and places him in his own arm, handing you the jacket in the movement. Tom feels the wind on his arms as he’s taken off the warmth, but he also feels it in him that Y/N needs it more. 

She gives him a smile and mouths thanks. 

“I thought you don’t like each other?” 

Kit’s voice startles both of them, and Y/N gives him an amused smile. 

“Well, kiddo, sometimes, even if you don’t really like someone, you try to be a decent human being. And either way, we’re making it to friends now. I’d say we’ve gotten there, right?” 

The smile and look she sends Tom when she turns her head to see him has his heart beat faster. He wants them to be friends, so of course he nods. But he would like them to, maybe at least try, be more. He makes a silent prayer of that happening in the future. 

For now, he takes the friends. “Yes. It’s called making progress.”

—

They arrive back at Benedict’s around nine. Neither Sophie nor Benedict comments on the fact that Y/N has Tom’s jacket on, but if they believe he doesn’t see the look they give each other, then they are very wrong. 

During the hours Y/N and Tom went trick or treating with the kids, the two parents have managed to change into costumes themselves. Benedict is dressed as Sherlock Holmes and Sophie as a female version of Watson (at least, that’s what Tom presumes based on the costume contents). 

“Babysitters here?” asks Y/N as the two takes their coats.

“Came half an hour ago,” replies Benedict and hands her a coat as well. Something twists in her face for a second and she shrugs out of Tom’s jacket and hands it back to him, taking the coat Benedict hands her without hesitation. Tom supposes the one she puts on is hers. 

“Then we’re ready to go, right?” 

They nod and walk out into the cold evening air. A taxi waits on the curb and they all get in. Tom in the passenger seat in the front and the three others in the backseats. He finds himself happy with the choice seeing them crammed together. Yet something churns in his gut at the thought of being confined to a crammed space next to Y/N. 

_He needs to get out of his head._

The trip to the bar takes little time. It’s being rented by one of their mutual friends (work) that decided it was time for a coworker Halloween party. 

Music floats in the air when they open the door inside. A bartender stands at the bar, or rather leans against the back. Only one person sits by the counter, but he isn’t ordering anything. There are some people on the dance floor, rocking out to Bohemian Rhapsody. 

Tom looks to his friends, notes that Y/N mimes the words to the song and also makes a silent conversation with Benedict about where to go. They find Eddie in the bar, though Tom can’t guess as to who he is. 

“Are you dressed as Newt Scamander?” asks Y/N, and when Eddie proudly nods and beams at her and continues the conversation by talking about Harry Potter and everything that has to do with it, Tom slides into a seat with a deep sigh. 

He wishes he’d dressed easier. Even with the costume being easily recognizable in what era of time, that doesn’t mean anyone will notice he’s dressed as Hamlet. Apparently, Y/N doesn’t. 

“Hey, guys,” says a voice. Tom takes his gaze of the chattering coworkers across from him to look up at the owner of the voice. He meets Emma’s gaze with a smile. Out of their many coworkers, Emma is one of his favorites. They don’t have that much time to talk, but she’s definitely has many ideas and interesting topics to talk about. 

Y/N, seeing the younger girl, gets out of her seat and gives Emma a big hug. “It’s been too long since I saw you. How’s the project going?” 

The sociology professor smiles and nods. “It’s really good. The students are engaged, I’m engaged and we’re making progress. A lot of progress. Wrote an article not long ago about equality that they posted actually.” 

“I’m so happy for you.” Y/N gives her another hug and looks like she just met her number one celebrity. Tom can see why. 

“Thank you.” Emma turns to everyone else. “So, I noticed you come in and I have some information about this ‘party’.” She uses air quotations around party. “The bathroom is up the stairs, the dance floor is where you see some dancing and the bar you’ve probably noticed. Fire escape routes are posted on the walls, but just for safety, it’s the door you came in and you can break through the windows. Also a fire escape on the second floor, so if you’re in the bathroom you can still get out. Other than that, there’s one free drink on me. Nothing over ten pounds. I hope you have fun and I love your costumes.”

Emma smiles at them all. Tom takes a minute to check her costume. A cloak of some sorts which hides a black sweater where small peeks of a white shirt pops out, with a red and yellow tie. She wears a skirt and her hair is curly and huge. Tom can’t pinpoint exactly who she’s being. 

Y/N can, though. “I love yours, too. Hermione, right?” 

“Knew you would get it.” She smiles. “Anyways, I hope you have fun and don’t hesitate to come talk to me through the evening. I brought some other friends and they don’t really know anyone so I’ll probably mostly be with them.”

“Your age, right?” asks Y/N. 

Emma nods. “You wanna meet them? Pretty sure you’d get along.” 

“If that’s what it takes to catch up with you, of course.” And then the two women walk away, making a detour by the bar before sitting down at a table with three other people. 

Neither of the four left at the table say anything, until Sophie breaks the silence by asking anyone if they want to get something to drink. Tom volunteers to join her in getting the drinks. 

“So,” says Sophie as they walk, her voice a little lower than for normal conversation. “What’s the deal with you and Y/N?” 

Tom rolls his eyes. “There is none.”

“Are you sure? Because Benedict told me about the kiss and that she doesn’t remember it, but he said she wants to.”

He swallows the lump in his throat and ignores the feeling that floods his veins. “They both mentioned it, yes. But I don’t think that has anything to do with it.” 

Sophie shrugs. “Seems like there’s more than one reason she wants to if you ask me, but what do I know?” 

Tom nods. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Sophie, but I can tell you that we are making progress into friends.” 

She smiles at that. “Appreciate it. Especially thinking of Hal and Kit, they love both of you and after that day you babysat Kit asked questions I would rather avoid.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She waves it away, but Tom still feels a little guilty. He casts a glance Y/N’s way. Her head is thrown back in laughter, a big smile on her face and when she recovers she speaks with glee and enthusiasm. He only notices that when she teaches, mostly other than those times she seems grumpy. 

He tries to ignore the stab to his gut, but it’s not easy. Either way, they’re becoming friends. He wants to be her friend. He’s always wanted to be her friend. Finally, he’s making progress. 

It only took five years, some hate, and a push from their superiors. 

It only took five years to glue the million pieces of his heart together. It’s still not whole, but it’s getting there. 

Finally.


	12. Y/N Y/L/N

You can’t place the feeling. Not really. All you know is that something feels… off. Wrong. 

It’s Sunday, three days since halloween and you met Emma’s friends. Even though that was fun and all, the night could have been better had you stuck with the people you know. Not only would you be able to continue to get Tom being nice (which had your heart race a mile a minute), but you could also, maybe, have more fun seeing as you wouldn’t panic everytime you said something. 

However, three days later, something feels off. You’re not even sure if it has anything to do with Halloween (if it has anything to do with Tom lending you his coat because you were barely dressed in your costume), or if it has something to do with the fact that you have no recollection of what you did last night. 

All you know is that something is not as it should be. 

You try to shake off the feeling and reach for your phone, where it lies on your nightstand. The clock on it reads 07.39 AM and you curse your annoying drunk self for always making sure you wake up early―it’s not that you go to bed early, no rather late actually (like you gotta stay up ‘til at least 3 AM), but more that whenever you do get drunk, you actually fall asleep right away and you actually sleep. Maybe that’s the cure. 

Despite wanting to continue your slumber, you decide to get up. Maybe you can figure out what’s giving you this feeling of something being amiss. 

One slightly wrong, though not that surprising, thing lies on your couch. Y/BFF/N has their face half planted in one of your pillows, though the angle works for them to breathe. One arm hangs loosely off the couch and their legs have tangled themselves in a blanket, where one is thrown over the back of the couch. You have no idea how that can be comfortable, and you bet they’ll tell you how much they regret it when they wake up. 

Yet, you know that’s not the feeling that haunts you. Seeing your best friend crashing on your couch is not a rare sight, though it is becoming rarer as time passes. 

Nothing is amiss in your apartment. Everything where you left it when you went out last night, even the now half-full bottle of wine you opened before leaving that sits on your countertop. 

The mystery continues, but the answers are not in your apartment. One thing’s for sure, you’re not about to go out and find out. 

Before you decide to check any messages or notifications, you find a glass, fill it with water and down it in seconds. Pulling your head back you become aware of the ache in it, and with the water helping you clear your mind a little, the pounding slowly creeps into a loud drum. 

Okay, so you’re not getting away from being hungover. _Good to know_. 

Not being able to focus with the drums really taking off in your head, you rush to the bathroom and find aspirin. You take two and swallow them with another glass of water. It’s gonna take a little while before they help so you slide down the bathroom wall and sit there to let yourself ease into the beating that keeps interrupting your thoughts. 

It feels like it takes forever, but when you check the clock, the pounding starts to wind down a little after more or less fifteen minutes. You don’t have the energy to get up from the warmth of the bathroom floor, so you continue to sit as you open your phone. 

You have three snaps, five messenger texts, two texts and eleven missed phone calls. The phonecalls belong to three people; three from Tom (your heart skips a beat at the thought that he thinks of you), six from Benedict, and surprisingly, two from Chris. 

The two texts are one message of having voicemails (three), and one message from Tom; _I heard from Benedict. He’s worried, are you okay? - Tom._ You ignore it, making a note to reply and listen to the voicemails after checking messenger and snap. 

It takes three seconds to regret checking snap. Two of the snaps are from people you have no idea who are, but who you probably added last night. The last one is a video of you from Y/BFF/N embarrassing yourself to the _n_ th degree on the dance floor. You know they saved it, and you know there is no point in asking to delete it―no matter what, you know they won’t post it anywhere. 

In a state of shock, checking messenger becomes more automated that anything else. You read the messages; one with a similar name to one of the snap usernames that you ignore and delete the friend request seeing as the message itself is not one you want; one that’s from a groupchat with you, Y/BFF/N and another mutual friend that you don’t see that often as they live abroad, but whom you trust fully and therefore has replied to your drunk texts about wanting to fuck a certain person whose name shall not be mentioned; three texts from Chris asking what’s going on, if you’re okay and if there’s anything he can do to help. You only reply to Chris’s by asking why he wonders, saying yes and asking him if he knows anything about what happened last night―you do not admit to having no memory of the evening. 

Waiting for a reply you listen to the voicemails. All three are from Benedict; one he sounds mad in, one he sounds worried in, and one he threatens to call the police and tell them that you’re missing and that you might be in danger―it feels a little weird not knowing if that actually happened. 

You sigh, blowing your hair so it falls in your face. _Well, well, gotta keep searching_. 

In the living room, Y/BFF/N lies in the same position as before. You ignore them, instead focusing on the low rumble from your stomach. 

Hopefully, some food will help clear the mystery. 

The food itself doesn’t help. However, the replies from Chris does. 

**Chris:** _asking because you seemed very drunk and i wanted to know you’re okay, good that you are, and no, i don’t know since you never really gave me anything to go on_

**You:** _okay, well, there are no other messages between us, anything I did to alert you??_

**Chris:** _uhh, no, actually it was Tom that called me_

**You:** _Tom?? Hiddleston?? The dude who I teach with??_

**Chris:** _yeah… i was surprised too, maybe talk to him?_

**You:** _yeah, im gonna_

Of course, that’s what you tell Chris. You know, with every ounce of your body, that you will not pick up the phone and either text or call him because you know that _that_ would be the death of you. 

You will wait, as long as you can, to ask Tom why he called Chris. The thought of it alone just has that feeling of wrongness expand. You shake it off, put away your phone and return your attention to your food. 

–

Going into work on Monday is not on your list of fun activities, but it is something you have to do. You suppose it would have been on your list of fun if not for the looming conversation you need to have with a certain professor. 

It takes little time after your first class to meet him. Usually, your schedules don’t coincide but you guess the universe isn’t on your side today. 

“Hi.” Tom purses his lips and puts his hands in his pockets. 

You nod. “Hi.”

“How was your weekend?” he asks. 

“It was good,” you say and nod. “You know what, I can’t really talk right now. Catch you later?” You shoot him a pained smile and hurry away before Tom can answer. There is no way you’ve ever been in a more awkward situation (and the worst part is that you don’t even know what it is that made it awkward―what the fuck did you say?!). 

You try not to think too hard about it as you make your way back to your office. With two hours of office time, you can get back to focusing on your research project and get your mind off Saturday night and your possibly very embarrassing utterance to Tom. 

_God, what the fuck did you say?_

It takes a solid five minutes for your mind to rush back to what’s been circling around the last twenty-four hours. 

“Okay, you know what?” you say out loud to the silence of your office. It does not reply back. However, in the need to say it out loud, you act as if it did. “I have to just ask. I’m gonna go to wherever he currently is and I’m gonna ask what I said and I’m gonna cut right to the chase and it’s gonna be alright. It’s gonna be okay. It’s probably not as bad as I think it is.” 

However, you don’t get up. It’s like you’re glued to your chair and no matter how much the nerves in your brain tells your legs to get up, they don’t move. 

For two hours, you just sit there. Almost so you’re late to class even. 

–

“We’re doing a what?” 

Both you and Tom frown at Dean McHallan who, though with a slight roll of his eyes, nods. “You’re going to a conference in Scotland. I know it’s sudden and it seems weird, but they specifically asked for you two to speak.”

You raise a brow. “They asked for us to speak about what exactly? Do I have to prepare some kind of presentation or something now because, honestly, I’m not ready for that.” 

“They asked for you both to speak on team-teaching creative writing. They wanted input from your students as well so during the week now, ask them some questions that you can quote them on. And they wanted you, Y/N, to speak on your research project as they find it interesting and they weirdly enough hadn’t thought about it before. They would love to hear how you’re going about it.” 

Your mind races as you nod along to his words. What are you supposed to do? Say no, nope, you can’t do that. You literally have no choice because he’s already said you’re going and McHallan makes the final decisions and he also knows neither of you really have anything that important going on currently. 

“Okay, I guess we’re going to Scotland next week.” You’ve always wanted to go so maybe it’s an opportunity you should take anyway. 

“It’s settled then. Tom?”

The literature professor nods. “I can’t argue with your reasoning so I guess we’re going. I have some inquiries. Accomodations? Travel? Food? And when?”

McHallan hands each of you a piece of paper. “You will be in the same hotel, though different rooms. I think they’ll be just across from each other or something. You’ll fly there on wednesday morning, together, and have all wednesday evening to settle in and make the last preparations and so on. Food will be accounted for unless you eat above budget. There are breakfast and dinner included at the hotel, and lunch is served with the conference. If you eat anything outside of that it will be out of your own pocket. The schedule for the conference is on the back of that paper and the information you need about your flights just under there.”

You nod, going over the paper as McHallan talks and making different mental notes. Some of those make no sense, and one of them is ‘get trapped somewhere so you have to ask Tom what you did on Saturday’, though you’re afraid that one might be the hardest one to see through with.


	13. Tom Hiddleston

Tom bets, with everything within him, that the university could afford better seats on the plane. He’s certain that there could be better places to sit than almost at the back, cramped together. There is no way the seats are even economy. 

Based on the way Y/N slumps down in her seat with a groan, he guesses she feels the same. However, he doesn’t comment on it outloud. 

Since he met her in hallway last Monday and didn’t exactly know how to approach her, things have been weird. They’ve split the creative writing lessons so that they only have one teacher and not two, and she’s stopped sitting with him and Benedict during lunch. Tom guesses he knows why, but he’s not happy with how they’ve lost everything he’s been trying to build up. 

It’s, fortunately, not worse than how it was after the kiss. After that, his heart broke, but it broke more how casual Y/N was around him in the aftermath. They were still friends, still talked to each other and it hurt on every level to know she doesn’t feel the same―not that she knows how he feels. 

Tom has every hope that this spontaneous conference can help a little bit. The two of them will have to talk together a little bit and maybe they can clear the air. After all, his mind’s been stuck in the same place for the last week and a half but he’s none the wiser as to why Y/N hasn’t said anything during that time. It would be something she would comment on, right?

He shakes off the thoughts. He decided yesterday that he would use the hour and twenty minutes of flight time to sleep. Belt on, carry on secure, and a last minute peek at Y/N, who’s pulling a book out of her little backpack along with weird looking bracelets. _His aching heart really needs a rest._

Tom closes his eyes, and tries to let his mind rest. It’s to no avail as his thoughts keep flickering around, but at least he looks asleep. Maybe he’ll bore himself to sleep. 

He doesn’t, because, after what feels like forever later, Y/N shoves him a little and says they’ve landed. Tom sighs. 

At least she talked to him. 

It takes a little less than half an hour to get out of the airport and into a cab. Tom is the one to tell the driver what hotel they’re staying at, and during the ride, all Y/N does is stare out the window. He tries not to look at her, but every now and then he glances her way. Every time her expression seems a little sad, a little disappointed, and very much tired. 

That all changes when they come to the hotel and are greeted by the host of the conference, David Tennant. The man smiles at the two of them and Y/N smiles back, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Tom tries for a smile as well, but he’s not sure he manages. 

“Welcome,” says David, clapping his hands together. “We’re all happy you could make it, just walk in and you’ll be lead to your rooms. There’s a small get-together of the lecturers this evening, which is a choice to come to, but we hope you’ll be there.”

Y/N smiles. “We’ll see. But thanks for the invite.” 

“Yes, actually, there was someone wanting to talk to you.” David turns fully, only talking to Y/N, which has Tom’s heart ache, pinched to become the tiniest it can be. 

“Oh, really? Who?” 

“A Mr. Chris Evans.” 

Tom’s heart drops. That ache in his chest even bigger than before, and not only because he knows Y/N and Chris have a history but also because of the way she lights up. The smile that didn’t before reach her eyes, does now. 

Y/N thanks David as he leads them in, says she’ll go to Chris as soon as they’re settled in their rooms. He helps them at the receptionist’s desk, but leaves as soon as he’s told the woman their names. 

The woman smiles, her eyes lingering on Tom. He notices a small flutter of her eyelashes and the slightly flirtatious smile she sends him, but he ignores it. His heart belongs to someone else. He thought the feelings were gone, that they wouldn’t come back, and then… everything blossomed anew. His world went back into the misery it had been when he tried to get over her the first time around. 

“Here you go, Mrs. Y/L/N. The key to your room.” The woman hands Y/N a key, but she doesn’t leave.

“Did you say Mrs. Y/L/N?” she asks, lips pressed tightly together in afterthought. 

The woman nods. “Yes, are you two not married? We have you under the same room.” Her eyes flicker between Y/N and Tom, innocence the only visible thing in her eyes. 

“No, we’re not. Can we get two rooms?”

The woman shakes her head. “Sorry, everything’s booked up. There should be two beds, though.” 

Y/N nods, tries for a smile, but the anger has made a home on her face. The smile is more a half glare than anything else. But she thanks the woman, grabs her suitcase and walks to the elevator. As she walks, Tom can see that the knuckles are white on the hand holding the key. 

He rushes after her, manages to get into the elevator before it closes and tries for a sympathetic smile her way. Yet, he doesn’t say anything. He’s kind of happy about it, as that makes him able to spend more time with her, maybe more easily talk to her about what’s been bugging him for the last week. 

They don’t talk the whole elevator ride, and when they reach the floor their room is on, Y/N walks ahead. Even her walking is stomping. She reaches the room, unlocks it and walks inside. Tom follows after, and nearly bumps into her as she’s stopped in her tracks. 

To no one’s particular surprise, there is only one bed. 

Y/N turns around. “I’ll text Chris, ask him about his room situation and check if I can be with him instead.” It’s not a proposition, or a question. It’s a statement and her phone is in her hand, fingers tapping furiously at the keyboard. 

The frustration and telling she’s not gonna stay in the room doesn’t keep her from lying down on the bed. Tom doesn’t mind (maybe the sheets will smell like her) and, now that he can, makes his way further inside to sit down on a chair by a mini desk. 

After a few minutes in silence, there’s a knock on the open door. Tom looks up to find Chris. The man is cautiously looking into the room, and when he sees Y/N, his face lights up. Tom diverts his gaze to her, and sees that she’s regained her energy as she jumps off the bed and right into his open arms. 

“You have a single room?” asks Y/N, looking up at the man, still in his embrace. 

“Yeah. One room with a queen sized bed all to myself.” He says it teasingly, making Tom feel like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be. “But can’t say I’m bummed about getting to share with you.” 

Tom’s whole body turns ice cold. It buzzes with nerves, as if a bee has taken up residence in his veins. His heart hammers, squeezes. It feels like he can’t breathe properly. His gut churns, not a good flutter or a warmth spreading from joy, but a churn that makes it feel like someone’s turning a knife around in his stomach. It feels like someone has stabbed him, again and again and again, and they’re sprinkling salt on the open wound. 

Never before has Tom felt more like crap. Never before has Tom been this disappointed in his feelings. Never before has Tom wanted to take away someone else’s happiness like he wants to in that moment. 

Relief washes over him when the two of them leave. 

—

David had, during the dinner buffet that was free, told Tom that the lecture holders gathering would start at eight. Tom had eaten, gone up to his room and refined his and Y/N’s lecture for tomorrow (his part of course) a little and at exactly eight, he decided to go downstairs again. 

He’s standing outside the elevator doors, having pressed the down button and waiting patiently. The numbers indicating the floors are on two floors above him and decreasing steadily. The doors open with a pling and a voice saying “fourth floor”. 

In the open doors, he sees Y/N. She’s leaning against the wall with her eyes on her phone, not even looking at Tom. He steps inside, swallows his pride and checks what buttons she pressed. 

Lobby. 

Since she’s not with Chris, he suspects she’s going to the gathering herself. However, she might also be going out to eat with him but that one of them had to do something―he hadn’t seen either of them during his own dinner. 

Tom keeps his mouth shut, deciding that a ride in silence will be for the best. He’s content to just be in Y/N’s presence, anyway. Considering that they’ve gone from being acquaintances to enemies to friends to coworkers who try to speak to each other as little as possible, he takes what he can get. 

Of course, his prayers of the ride to go smoothly and that (no matter how much he wants to be in Y/N’s presence) they won’t have to be in the same space more than need be, are not answered. 

The elevator makes a weird noise that has Y/N look up from her phone. She takes a glance at Tom and for once her look isn’t evading his but more a ‘what the hell is going on?’ and then the noise stops. But so does the elevator. 

A red light starts to blink on the button panel. It’s of a bell, probably to signal an alarm. _Great, the fucking elevator stopped_. 

“ _We are sorry for the inconvenience. The lift has stopped and we will try to be as quick as we can to help you out. How long this will take, we can’t say._ ” 

The voice is a mockery in Tom’s head. He glares at the panel and lets out a groan. 

Y/N does the same, but hers sounds a bit different. He chances a look her way. She has her eyes closed, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, and Tom isn’t sure exactly what kind of reaction it is. 

Until she slides down the wall, drops her phone to the floor and curls in on herself. Tom is almost certain what comes next are sobs, but he’s not sure. She rocks back and forth, making Tom’s heart break slowly in his chest. 

He pulls himself together. There’s no way he can watch her sit there and cry and not do anything. So he walks slowly over and he sits down next to her. He drapes his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his embrace. 

It’s definitely sobs. Now he can hear them and feel them. He doesn’t care that his shirt gets wet, all he cares about is the fact that her breathing is irregular, she’s sobbing and her whole body trembles. Tom strokes her hair, creates circles on her back and tries his best to whisper “it’s okay” soothingly. 

There’s no saying how long they’ll be trapped, no saying how long she will take to get over it. Tom isn’t even sure why she reacted the way she did, but he isn’t going to hold it against her. Never. 

Eventually, she pulls away. She wipes her eyes with her palms, and for once, gives Tom a grateful smile. It takes him back to when she said thank you over a month ago when he’d saved her from falling down the steps to the basement. It reminds him of the soft look she had, the tiny touch to his wrist. 

The reminder has his heart hurt more. It was when they became better friends, when they did more to become closer and work together. And in a little over a month, Tom had probably ruined it again. Or, he isn’t sure if it’s his fault, but he thinks it might be. 

It’s him that hasn’t asked Y/N about what she told him. She probably thinks he doesn’t care, that he doesn’t want anything to do with her because he hasn’t answered. But that’s not true. 

He just doesn’t know what to answer. 

But he knows what to say now, seeing Y/N’s bloodshot eyes and still slightly terrified expression. “Are you okay?” It sounds like a stupid question, but it seems to relieve some of the fear on her face. 

“Yeah,” she replies. “I think so. Thanks.”

He shrugs. “My pleasure.” _My pleasure? Really Tom? You could’ve done better than that_. Tom tries not to make it obvious he hates himself for saying that. 

Yet, Y/N only smiles. Her lips are graced with this almost laugh that makes Tom’s heart swell, because despite _just_ having stopped crying, she looks content. 

“I hope we’re not gonna be here long,” she says. “I don’t think I can handle that.” 

“I hope we won’t either, and for the same reason.” 

That creates another laugh, and Tom tries to not smile so proudly at being able to make her laugh. He tries to let it go, together with the somersault his gut takes, but it doesn’t seem to be the easiest thing to do. 

Silence settles over them, and Tom ponders if he should break it many times. But it’s Y/N that does, and not quite how he thought she would. 

“What did I tell you over a week ago? When you called Chris out of worry?”

Tom stares at her, blinking rapidly in confusion. “You don’t remember?”

She shakes her eyes. “Complete blackout. All I know is I alerted you to something, had a few missed calls from Benedict, texts from Chris and some snaps from some people I don’t know who are and that I instantly deleted.”

“Chris didn’t tell you anything?” 

“He said he didn’t know anything. He said he’d just gotten a worried call from you or something and then he sent me texts asking if I was okay and such and when I asked him about it he said that I needed to ask you because he didn’t know.”

Tom sighs. First of all, he was hoping she knew. Second of all, he’d told Chris exactly what she’d told him. Why hadn’t he told her that? Why had he lied? It doesn’t matter. He won’t rip her happiness away from her. He couldn’t possibly live with himself if he did. 

He leans his head back against the elevator wall. “If you don’t know, maybe it’s for the best.” 

“Nope, never. I’m going to go crazy if someone doesn’t tell me and since you’re the only one who knows I have no choice but to ask you.” Y/N looks adamant at him. “Look, I know things have been awkward this past week but it’s because I didn’t know how to ask what I said and also don’t know _what_ I said and I’m afraid of what it is. I’m sorry I’ve been kind of distant.”

Tom lets the smile tug on his lips. “Don’t be. I haven’t been any better.” He nods, swallows the lump in his throat and looks at her. “Okay, so for what you told me… I’m not sure if it really is going to let this become less awkward, but since you want to know so badly, I’ll tell you.”

“You know you can just say it outright? Not lead up to it as if a villain in a movie?”

Tom laughs. “I can? I didn’t know.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know or not?”

Y/N hold up her arms in defense. “Sorry, sorry. Yes, I do want to know.” 

“You told me, and I quote ‘I think you should read this story I wrote. It’s about a couple of teachers, like us, who go on dates and end up together and I think it’s really cute and I think you should find something like it’.” 

Y/N raises both brows. “You can quote that? From me being drunk and calling you?” 

“You have to admit that it was quite weird.” 

“Yeah, which is exactly why you shouldn’t remember it word for word.” She gives him an exasperated look. 

Tom stifles a laugh. “That’s what you take from it? That I shouldn’t remember it that well? That’s your outcome? Not the fact that you told me about a story you’d written and compared it to us? A story which included the two people you compared to us, dating?”

“To be honest, that is weird and much more like me and Chris than us.” She looks away from Tom, frown coloring her face. “And I don’t even remember writing that. I don’t think I have anything―” 

A light goes off on her face.

“You don’t have anything, what?” 

Y/N scrambles for her phone and seconds later, she’s reading something on it. “‘Honest Mistake - a story about two coworkers with pent up sexual energy’.” She looks away from it and takes a deep breath. “‘I looked at him. Looked at his charming smile, his long curly hair and his annoyingly hot beard. Looked at the stupid clothes he was wearing; a blue sweater he _had_ to have more than one of and a blue pair of jeans that I hoped he washed. And sometimes, I hoped he would throw them all off and take me right there.’” 

She looks up from her phone with an expression Tom is sure mirrors his own; horrified.

“You wanted me to read that?” 

“No, absolutely not. I wrote it when I was drunk and forgot I wrote it. It’s not even good. But I can tell you that it gets rather… explicit.”

Tom smiles. “I do kind of want to read now.” And then thinking that over he stops his thoughts. “Wait, blue sweater, blue jeans. Are you talking about me? Am I the man in the story?” 

Y/N looks away from him, her eyes flicker across the ceiling. When he doesn’t say anything, only patiently wait for her to reply, she glances at him. And, reluctantly, she nods. “Drunk me is not the me I like so don’t hold anything against me. And, can you blame me? You’re good looking.”

_Excuse me while I go scream_. Tom’s heart pounds so loudly he’s sure she can hear it because she called him good looking. She… has imagined them having sex. She _wrote_ about them having sex. 

“I am not sorry, but I am going to hold this against you.” He tries to press back the smile that wants to form, and not a mocking one but one of pure happiness because _god, Y/N thinks he’s good looking_. “Any chance I get, where it fits, I’ll use it against you.”

She nods. “I guess that’s fair, seeing as I would do the same to you. But… can you not in front of Chris. I would rather he didn’t know.” 

“Is he the jealous type?” 

“I don’t think so, and we haven’t really established anything, but… It might go somewhere and I don’t want to fuck it up because I was drunk one night and… yeah, did that. Also I’m going to tell him what I told you was something along freaking out about an assignment the students were supposed to hand in or something, ‘kay?”

Tom nods. He wants to tell her that Chris knows, but seeing as to what she said, maybe there’s a reason Chris isn’t telling her. Maybe he hopes it’s something she will just forget and then Chris can rest easier, but Tom doubts it. 

He’s also starting to doubt them getting help out of the elevator. 

“Thanks for calming me down, by the way. I know I said thanks earlier, but talking helped, too. Got my mind off the fact that the walls are closing in on us.” Y/N gives him a strained smile, which he returns. 

“No worries.” He nods at her. “I’m really sorry to ask this first now, but do you have any reception?” 

Y/N looks down at her phone. “Yeah, I do. I’ll call Chris, should’ve thought of that before. Let’s not mention how long we were stuck. How long have we been stuck?”

Tom glances down at his watch. “Looks to be about twenty minutes. Not a lot, but I guess enough.”

“Thank God. I hope it’s not gonna be much longer.”

Tom isn’t sure what he hopes. All he knows is that things might not be as awkward anymore, but he can’t be too sure either. That depends entirely on when he brings up the story. He prays for himself not to fuck up again. 

And if they’re stuck longer, maybe he can pry out why she hated him in the first place. 

—

After getting out of the elevator (and deciding not to go the the gathering), Tom doesn’t meet Y/N until breakfast the next day. 

She’s standing with Chris, leaning into his side and smiling brightly. The two of them are standing with Sebastian, plates in hand but no food. The line doesn’t look like it’s moving. 

Tom doesn’t walk over to them by want, but rather because he’s waved over by Sebastian who sees him―probably sick of third wheeling the lovely ‘couple’. 

“Hi,” says Tom as he gets close. He smiles slightly, meets Y/N’s gaze and her slightly awkward smile. When they said bye after getting out of the elevator, it hadn’t been awkward. When they’d been stuck for another twenty minutes, it hadn’t been awkward. But, perhaps, has Tom taken his luck in advance? 

“How are you? After yesterday?” Chris smiles at him, he nods to the side to you. “She was pretty shaken up.”

Tom shrugs. “It’s not something I’d like to repeat, no, but I think she took it harder than me.” He tries for a smile, which Chris returns. 

“Based on what she told me, I think that’s true.”

Y/N rolls her eyes and lightly punches Chris in the side. He replies by letting out a little laugh and kissing the top of her head. 

Tom wishes he wasn’t there to see it. Based on Sebastian’s roll of his eyes it’s safe to say he wishes he wasn’t there either. But Tom suspects it’s for entirely different reasons. 

—

“I’m not so sure about this.” Y/N paces back and forth behind the little stage of the conference. It’s almost their turn to go on and, though Tom’s nervous himself, he clearly isn’t as nervous as Y/N. 

He tries to shake his head, put on a smile that tells her it’ll be okay, but he can judge from her reaction that it doesn’t work. 

“Really, Tom, this is, might, will… I don’t know but this will be a disaster.” She throws her hands up. “We haven’t really got a lecture or anything like that, we got a few notes and are relying on people asking questions. What if we get no questions? What if we can’t answer the questions? Do you think they’ll ask about anything not relating to this?”

Tom moves closer to her. He stops her pacing by standing in front of her and placing his hands on her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, unsure whether that’s to soothe himself (and the burn his touch to Y/N’s shoulders bring) or if it’s to soothe her. “They will probably ask questions, seeing as we were asked to come here, albeit on short notice. But they probably want tips of some sort, and they probably won’t ask anything about anything else. What would they even ask about?”

Y/N nods. A deep breath comes from her lips and she closes her eyes for a moment. “Do you think I have the time to take a shot?”

“A shot? Of alcohol?”

She nods. “I don’t think I can go on without anything in my blood. I’m too nervous. This is like being at a bar and being asked to dance.” 

Tom squints at her. “You need a shot to go to the dance floor when you’re out?”

“Oh, shut up. As if you don’t. I’ve seen you at Christmas parties, you always drink a lot.”

He shakes his head. “I usually drive so that is not true.”

Her brows crease together. “Wait? You’re kidding, right?” Her voice is surprisingly quizzical. 

“No, haven’t Benedict told you? I usually drive him and Sophie.”

Y/N presses her lips together as she shakes her head. She twists out of his grip on her shoulders as well and staggers a step away. But the whisper that comes from her mouth is still easily caught, “so you weren’t drunk when you…?” 

Seeing the look of horror on Y/N’s face, Tom decided he won’t question it. It might be for the best because sometimes, the revelation of someone _not_ being drunk gives you more reason to blame them for something. Now, Tom doesn’t know what he’d be blamed for, but he’s not so sure he wants to know (and he’s not so sure he doesn’t already know). 

When Tom shakes out of his thought, Y/N’s gone and David peeks through the little curtain. He raises a brow at seeing Y/N not there, and Tom shrug because he really doesn’t know where she went―though most likely to the bar. 

“Yer on in a few minutes,” says David, and Tom nods. “She’ll be back to then, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I believe so. But even if she isn’t I think it’ll be okay. I can stall them,” replies Tom. He can hear the nervousness and haste in his voice. So much that he wonders how well David perceives it. 

If he does, the man doesn’t comment on it. He only gives Tom a thumbs up and leaves again. Leaving Tom alone with his beating heart and thoughts because, even if he has a slight inkling as to what Y/N muttered about, he wishes he knew for sure. 

At least, he doesn’t get to dwell too long on the dread, as Y/N reappears moments later. The shaking and the nerves visible on her face before are gone and instead, she’s plastered on a smile. A smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

Tom wants to say something, and he’s about to open his mouth to do so, but in that moment, David calls their names and they’re cheered onto the stage. Both of them walk out and they smile at the little crowd that’s there. 

To be honest, Tom’s been at conferences before, but this one’s been a trainwreck like no other. He wonders how he’s gotten to that point. 

Only, he can’t wonder for long because Y/N has started talking and Tom has to know his cue and chime in. For having been somewhat enemies only a few months ago, you sure work well as a team. 

And eventually (a good fifteen minutes later) they open for questions. Tom expected two or three, maybe a fourth, but all of the first row has their hands up. The whole ordeal has his heart pounding in his chest and he wishes to take off his shirt before he gets two giant sweat rings under his arms. 

With a deep breath, he gets back to reality. Y/N’s already answered the first question and is moving on to the next. Tom tries to follow. 

“What made you decide to do team teaching in the first place?” asks a woman at the front row. 

Tom nods. “Well, we didn’t really decide ourselves. At the start of this we had our differences, we probably still have a lot of them, but we were forced to figure something out and agreed that the best for the students would be to have two teachers with different aspects on what’s important, thus enriching their experience as a class.” 

That was not a practiced answer. 

A man rises as Y/N points at him. “What had you be forced to work together? That seems like a rather stupid idea if you had that many differences.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Y/N smiles and nods, “we’ve kinda been enemies for a while and one of the reasons we decided this would be the best was because neither would give up the class and I found out later that it was HR’s plan to make us get along. We’ve been put in the same position yet again throughout the semester to make us become friends.”

“Are you friends now?”

“I’d say we are, yeah.” Y/N casts a glance over at Tom. A small smile colors her face. “Though I still have my annoyances, and he probably has his, we’re better at talking about them, and we would never do anything to make our students uncomfortable or lash out at them if we were to be mad at each other.”

Tom notices Chris has his hand up, and he nods to the man to answer. He stands up, eyes flickering between the two of them. “What’s the worst that has happened? A fight, any good insults you remember?” 

“Now, Chris, that’s not really about team-teaching is it.” Y/N casts him an unamused look, but she shakes her head and opens her mouth again. “But, the worst that has happened is probably some of the insults we throw at each other from time to time. My quip is usually about his dick and how that’s his brain and he usually doesn’t have any good ones.”

A laughter rises through the crowd and Tom shakes his head. “Are you sure? I thought we had agreed you were obsessed with me? I recall you saying it yourself, in fact.” 

And that’s how the lecture takes a one-eighty and the two of them goes back and forth with insults at each other. The crowd laughs, someone shouting out that they should have their own comedy show or a comedy special. 

Tom can’t say he agrees, but he enjoys being back in familiar territory of making Y/N feel a little smaller. He can see she doesn’t take anything he says very hard, seeing as she knows as well as him that it’s all a play. 

Despite that, he’s grateful when David steps up on the stage and asks if anyone has any other questions. When no one has any, he asks for an applause and Y/N and Tom walk off the stage. 

It’s surprising how fast her mood changed. From completely terrified before, to laughing and smiling and actually giving Tom a _hug_. He relishes in it, takes in the fresh smell of her perfume and tries to mirror her enthusiasm. 

He leaves the job for Chris when he comes back, and lets his mind wander to the many possibilities of what can happen next. 

There’s still two days left of the conference and Tom has a breaking heart at the thought of seeing her kiss Chris more than the few times than he’s seen it already. 

He’d been happy when Y/N had said on Halloween they were friends, but he can’t say he’s happy with being her friend when the tapes over his heart falls off one by one and his lungs ache at the sight of her with someone else. 

Tom hopes he won’t have to suffer long. He’s not sure he can take much more.


	14. Y/N Y/L/N

There had been many things to take out of the week and a half after your confession to Tom, but the biggest thing you take out of it is how nice it was to get back into familiar territory. Bickering with Tom had been a pastime you had forgotten about and it had welled a warm feeling in your gut. 

If there’s one thing you now know to keep doing, it’s creating small, friendly fights with Tom. Just for the sake of it. 

Now that the trip to Scotland is over, you’re back to your regular schedule, which also happens to mean no Chris. Despite having spent the entire time together―even going on what you’d like to call an actual date―you hadn't gotten any closer to figure out what the relationship actually was.  _ Is _ . 

You guess you’re friends who occasionally see each other and when you do, fuck and act like a normal couple. But sure about that, you never will be unless you talk to him. Seeing as you don’t talk that much otherwise, you guess it shouldn’t be a big deal to just try and not think about the small amount of feelings that have been boiling within you for the American. 

Yet―and this is something you’re mind doesn’t seem to let go off―something is still swirling inside you and leaning towards someone else. You need advice, and you need it from someone that doesn’t know anything about your life in any other sense than the fact that you’re a professor. 

So, who’s better to ask than the class of Creative Writing you’re teaching alone because you and Tom never actually agreed to teach together again and the man had laid plans for the day seeing as you’d agreed it was your turn. 

The classroom is filling up with the students, none them surprised at the lack of their second teacher. However, you can hear some of them whisper about when you’ll start to teach together again. 

“Hi,” you say, feeling remarkably awkward for the first time standing in front of a bunch of students (usually, you get energy from it). “It’ll only be me today,  _ but _ Professor Hiddleston will be back here with me on Thursday. It’s been a little weird these past few weeks, hasn’t it?” 

They nod in agreement, a few murmurs passing through that you hear as ‘about time’. It’s only been two weeks, and three of four classes. The last one neither you nor Tom could be there as you were in Scotland. 

At the thought, a hand raises. You nod in its direction. “How was Scotland?”

You nod. “It was okay. Very informative and all around a good conference. It’s always nice to meet other professors and get the chance to share teaching techniques and some stories here and there.” 

And that is what makes the first half hour about Scotland and what happened. They ask about techniques you’re thinking of trying out, of professors you met (some they had heard of from friends at other universities), and they ask whether you and Tom made up. Apparently, they had all sensed something was wrong. 

Eventually, you decide that it’s time to start something more productive. “Okay, last question.” You nod in the direction of the boy on the front row. “Mr. Holland?”

The boy lets his hand fall to his side. “Are you and Professor Hiddleston, you know, getting to know each other?” 

You’re not sure if the question hit your heart and that that’s the reason for the pain, or if an actual knife is stuck in your gut. You swallow the lump in your throat. “I really hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are.”

“He is,” pipes from the back row.

“And to be honest, we’re all wondering,” comes another input. 

You sigh. “Really?”

An agreed murmur of ‘you look cute together’, ‘there’s a definite chance you like each other’, and one voice saying ‘he’s in love with you’. You’re not sure either of those are correct, but you can’t help but indulge. 

“Okay, if you have this insight, please tell me what to do.” You gaze over the thirty pairs of eyes looking back at you. “Because I’ve been kind of seeing this other professor―no he doesn’t work here, and he’s American―but we haven’t seen much of each other and when we do we don’t talk and it doesn’t feel like a relationship.”

“Do you like him?” asks one of the girls on the front row, Miss Wright. 

You shrug. “How do I know?” 

“You get tingly, like you have butterflies in your stomach.” “And whenever you touch you get all warm.” “And it feels like your heart is squeezing, pounding, as if you have no control over it. Though that can be for panic attacks and the like as well.” 

Something dings inside your head. That lightbulb that comes over characters heads in cartoons comes over yours. It’s like the puzzle pieces fall into place. 

_ Oh. _

_ Oh no.  _

_ Oh, fuck! _

And based on the question marks and frowns on your students faces, they saw that revelation, too. 

Mr. Holland is the one to ask, “so you like the other professor?”

You try for a smile. “What about we rather go to the actual contents of this class? There are, after all, things we should do.”

No one tries to pry the answer from you, and you try to forget it yourself to. But the fact is right there, even though you’ve been trying to drown the fact since you’d kissed him in that bar. 

You’ve been trying to drown the fact that you  _ are  _ in love with Tom Hiddleston, and that there’s no turning back from it now. And despite your mouth going in a different direction and talking about the contents of the class, all your mind can do is ask whether or not the student who said ‘he’s in love with you’ is right or not. 

\---

It’s been forever since you last really went to a party. Usually, the Christmas parties aren’t that much fun. There’s some alcohol in the picture, but no one drinks too much and mostly it’s conversations flowing here and there. 

However, Alisha had said they made a playlist and hooked it up to the speakers in the gym. You arrive later than most who decide to go, having to work up the courage (and the percent of alcohol circling in your blood). 

Music blasts from the speakers. Christmas music it’s possible to dance to. Being awkward has its perks, as you stand by the side and wait it out before actually going onto the dance floor. 

Standing by the bleachers you notice a couple of familiar faces on the floor. Sophie and Benedict dance together rather cutely, and you smile at the sight of the two of them. To their right you see Tom. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight. 

Tom moves with the rhythm. His whole body into it. He shuffles his feet, he moves his hips and it has your gut drop every inch. Especially knowing he does it with no alcohol in his blood―he’s driving. To be honest, you’re not exactly sure what move he makes, but the way his hips move with the music has you bite your lower lip and take a deep breath. It tickles in your stomach and you lick your lips, eyes trained on his form. 

You try to shake off some of the feeling. After admitting to yourself that you do like him, watching him do stuff has become harder than before. Those few churns have grown into buttloads, and what used to be a dream here and there where you argued and kissed, has become a daily thing. At least, you wish you aren’t obvious, but, judging by Benedict’s continuous knowing glances, you are. 

And then your eyes lock. Tom smiles your way, continuing to dance, but he moves closer whilst doing so. He doesn’t fully stop, but he moves differently now that he’s close. “Join,” he says, his voice breathless and with a smile so blinding you struggle breathing. 

You shake your head. “No, I can’t… I… I don’t―”

“Nonsense,” he cuts you off and takes your hand. “You’re probably great.” He drags you out to the dance floor, where you catch Benedict looking at you and subtly giving you a thumbs up. You roll your eyes, but smile his way nonetheless before returning your attention to Tom, who’s dragging you into the middle of the floor. 

The song changes as you end there, and because you are  _ so lucky _ , it plays  _ On Christmas Morning  _ by Michael McDonald. Tom only smiles at the change of pace, and instead of letting go of your hand, drags you closer and wraps his other around your waist. 

Everything burns at the closeness, and you look down as your feet start moving. Both to actually see where your feet go (couple’s dances are hard), but also to hide the blush on your cheeks from Tom. 

You let him lead you, swaying back and forth with grace. He lets you out to spin you―which is a huge surprise―and when you get back in his arms, he lets out a laugh and you meet his gaze. His eyes shine and you smile, letting the song carry your feet on the floor. You let the feeling of him so close envelop you. The way his hand in yours burns with intensity because skin on skin contact is almost too much to bear,  _ almost _ . The way he smiles down at you, eyes locked on yours. The way his hand steadies you at your waist and how the one you have on his shoulder is so close to his hairline, his face. It would only take one move and you would cup it.

But the songs ends before your full fantasies play out and changes into another fast paced one. He lets go and changes everything about his stance to fit the new rhythm. Watching him do it, so casually you know it’s the song that chooses the dance for him and not who he dances with, has your heart drop. One of the strings attaching it to its place breaks, others are close. 

You can’t let it show, and follow his moves. You both dance to the song, flowing with the rhythm, but with every move he does that has your gut churn with ripples at how amazing he is, your heart loses a piece of itself and that same churn feels like a knife ripping your gut open. Nevertheless, you smile and laugh. You enjoy the time spent with him, how he keeps glancing at you. It is hard not to notice the glance he sends others, too, but you try your best to ignore it. 

As much as you try to ignore the gunshot to your gut spilling your intestines out and ripping you apart from the inside, you can’t. Everything about him just screams at you, and it hurts more than you ever thought possible. 

\---

_ Your dress itched. It was the third time you were going to the restroom to fix it, to try and make the problem go away, but probably, yet again, to no avail. The route you take lead you past your office, and seeing as you were there, you decided to try and fix it in there instead.  _

_ As carefully as you could, you closed the door behind you after opening it and sneaking inside. The lightswitch turned, filled the room with light, and before you did anything, you closed the blinds.  _

_ And finally, you got to drag down the zipper of your dress. You let out a sigh of relief as the slight itch passed and sank down to rest on your desk.  _

_ It was in that bliss you heard it, in that moment of silence, that a knock came from the wall next to you. It was followed by voices, loud, quiet, a little hushed voices, but you heard one better than the others.  _

_ Recognizable in every way, you listened as Tom spoke. “I have a surprise, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.” _

_ The reply was only a murmur. Whether of agreement or not, you couldn’t be sure.  _

_ “It’s… I don’t know how to explain this, but I like someone.”  _

Fuck. _ You pressed your lips together, and tried not to think too hard about the ache in your heart.  _

_ “I have a plan… ish. And for that, I need your help.” _

_ You shook your head. Better leave before you heard more. It wasn’t like what you’d heard wasn’t enough to tear apart the last hint of feelings you’d had. As long as he was happy, right? _

_ \--- _

“I’m going to go get something to drink,” you tell Tom, and he nods and turns to dance next to Sophie and Benedict. Weaving through the crowd, you finally find the drinks. One alcoholic beverage coming right up, because you aren’t sure you’ll survive the night without it. 

You take a big sip, emptying half the can, and turn around. Leaning against the wall next to the table, you watch your colleagues have fun, and you spot Benedict making his way towards you. 

So far, he is the only one you’ve ever told your feelings to. Even back then you’d told him, because he seemed trustworthy. And he was,  _ is _ . Y/BFF/N had only ever gotten to know how annoying you thought Tom was. 

Benedict leans against the wall next to you. “So,” he asks, “when are you making the move?” 

“Never.” 

“Oh, come on. We both know you want to.” He glances at the crowd, finds the middle where Tom dances with Sophie, big smiles on both their faces. “How much alcohol does it take?”

You scoff. “You really think that’s all it’ll take? Enough alcohol and I’ll make a move?” 

He shrugs. 

“Nope. He’s gotta have some, too. And we both know he’s driving.” You shrug up at Benedict, but it’s hard to hide a smile that comes with knowing you’re right. 

He nods. “Point taken.” And then he turns and grabs more drinks. He hands you a new one, and walks onto the dance floor with the three left in his hand. 

You watch as he gives on to Sophie and Tom. The latter glances your way, and you move your gaze before your eyes lock. God, there’s just something about him. Something that makes you want to hide away the hatred you’ve carried with you for him. 

\---

_ The night was coming to and end. It was past midnight, your eyes were drooping, and you knew that taking the bus home would be a nightmare. So, you asked Benedict if he could give you a ride home.  _

_ Only Benedict was getting a ride by Tom. You didn’t believe the guy was capable of driving, based on what you’d seen from the night, but maybe you were wrong.  _

_ But that might have been your only option. So you made your way to the man in charge. Only, to do so, you had to walk outside into the cold night, and you didn’t have your jacket.  _

_ There was no jackets close by, but you didn’t think you’d be out long anyways, so what harm could there be.  _

_ Chills creeped around you as you pushed the door open. Tom stood only a few meters away, leaning against the wall and typing on his phone. You pushed the door open further, making it possible to go all the way out, but in doing so, something wet trickled down your arm.  _

_ As you glanced up, you noticed that the push of the door triggered a bucket prank. As the bucket covered your face, you knew it wasn’t water in the bucket. You took it off, eyes covered in goo, and glared Tom’s way.  _

_ The man looked over at you, eyes wide and mouth agape.  _

_ “You did this?” you asked, voice already layered with accusation.  _

_ Tom pressed his lips together. “It wasn’t meant for you,” he said. However, the press of his lips became recognizable as a stifle for laughter and not nervousness as he tried to suppress the smile forming on his face.  _

_ “Why are you laughing, then?” you asked.  _

_ He nodded. “It looks rather… funny.”  _

_ “Fucking great. You know, I liked this dress,” you told him. “Whatever.” And without even asking if he could drive you home, you stalked back inside.  _

_ Benedict sent you a look as you walked past him, but you just let out a giant sigh, enough to shut him up.  _

_ You managed to dry most of the goo off, but some had come in your dress, and you knew that you’d have to shower as soon as you got home. You also knew, based on the way the goo stuck to your dress, it wouldn’t be saved.  _

_ With as much as you could off, you walked back out to the hallway. By the other wall, stood Tom and Benedict, and despite the anger still in your veins for Tom ruining your dress, you didn’t have a choice but to ask.  _

_ “Can you give me a ride home?” you asked him.  _

_ “Really?” He looked surprised, glancing once at Benedict, who shrugged.  _

_ You nodded. “I’m too drunk to drive, I’m slightly annoyed, and I’m way too tired. Can you? Yes or no?” _

_ “Actually,” he said, “the car is already full. With Sophie and Benedict and Eddie and his wife, there isn’t any more room. Are there no one else you can ask?” _

_ You sighed. “I’ll figure something out.”  _ Great. Just fucking great.  _ You walked away from the two, but not far. Most on their way home would walk by the hallway, and you might be able to catch someone and ask for a ride. Or you’d just have to spend money on a cab, money you didn’t actually have.  _

_ From where you stood, you could still slightly hear Tom and Benedict’s voices. They spoke in hushed tones, glancing around them as if on guard. Though it didn’t seem like they cared whether or not you heard.  _

_ “It’s not like… I don’t know, Benedict. It’s not exactly that easy.” Tom sighed. “I like her, but I can’t… I don’t think there’s anything to go for.” _

_ “I think there is,” replied Benedict. “I believe the cold shoulder is only a precaution. After all, you have a little rumour here.”  _

_ “But how was that prank going to help me?”  _

_ You perked up at the mention of the prank, but you tried not to make it noticable. Glancing over at the two friends, you could see that it didn’t matter anyways. Their attention wasn’t on you.  _

_ “Get her attention,” said Benedict.  _

_ You rolled your eyes. “Dumbass,” you muttered.  _

_ But you didn’t care so much how stupid the prank was. Rather you cared that the why created an ache in your heart, because Tom wanted another woman’s attention, and you cared about the fact that he had ruined your favorite dress (even though it itched) and now you had to use money you didn’t have on a new one before Christmas eve.  _

_ The day had just gone in the opposite direction of what you’d wanted.  _

_ \--- _

You’re on your way out of the gym when a hand on your wrist stops you. Looking behind you, the man is Tom. He smiles slightly, but quickly releases your hand. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“Oh, yeah, just a little tired, I guess.” You mirror his smile. “I… It’s been a long week.” And it’s the truth, because it was Tuesday when you admitted to yourself that you like Tom, and now it’s Saturday, and the feelings have been growing more and more intense every day. 

“That’s good.” He nods. “Do you want a ride home earlier? I’m not sure how much more in the mood I am to stay. I know Eddie is driving, I can ask Benedict and Sophie if they could hitch a ride with him?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat. You’d already asked Tom if he was driving, and if you could join his carpool, to which he’d said yes. And he’d told you that Sophie and Benedict were joining, and that’s how the four of you had gotten to the party. However, there was something inside you that really wanted to say yes. Alone time with Tom, being able to get home earlier (it was already ten PM and it’d probably be another half hour until you were actually home), and at home earlier there would be more time to eat ice cream, and drink wine. 

But you can’t ask him to do that. “I… No, you don’t have to. I can take a cab, it’s no problem.” 

It really wasn’t. After you’d had three raises in pay, you could afford a cab if you needed one. Of course, you’d like to be driven home by Tom, but you’d never ask him to, nor expect him to. 

“It’s okay. I’ll ask them.” And he disappears. 

You stand there looking after him, only to first notice him as he walks back again to you. Your heart hammers in your chest, seeing him in his tight fitting clothes and  _ oh, why does he have to be so good looking? _

“They said it’s alright. Shall we go?” he asks. 

“I just gotta do one thing first. Give me five minutes, ten minutes max.” And this time you disappear, or you hope he doesn’t see you. Because you head for the open bar, grab two bottles of beer and chug both. Not at the same time, but it does feel like it. 

And with that done, and more energy in you instead of the nervousness flowing through your system, you walk back to Tom, ready to let him drive you home. 

_ Oh, God, what have you done? _

When you get back to Tom, you shoot him a brighter smile than you’ve had all evening. “I’m ready now.” Even though the alcohol uses some time to really get into your blood, you can already feel the buzz growing. Maybe you’d had a little too much? Nah, you are still of sound mind. 

You think.

\---

The car ride is silent. Or as silent as can be with the radio playing Christmas music softly in the background. 

Eventually, and now the alcohol has really set in, Tom pulls up by your apartment complex. He parks the car and actually helps you out, even though you are pretty sure you can walk. 

He insists on walking you up, not sure if you can walk up all the stairs. Protesting doesn’t help, and he hooks your arms together. 

_ Fuck him and the gentleman he is _ . Well, your mind saying fuck him and goes to a different place than being mad, and you curse yourself for it. 

But you’re not sober, and it wouldn’t take a lot to actually press your lips to his. It would actually not take a lot at all. A little push, from something, someone.  _ Holy fuck, you have a mistletoe in your doorway _ . 

You’d hung it there two weeks ago in hopes Chris would visit and you could use it straight away. But he never had come, and now you were tipsy bordering drunk with the man you had fantasized about for about a week on your arm. 

Isn’t life fun?

And then you’re stopping outside your apartment. You fiddle with the keys, enough so that Tom takes them and opens up for you himself. You lean against him, and stop in the doorway. There really is nothing better than a push to make you do it, and Tom is wearing a tie. 

So, you find it rather easy when you’re both standing underneath the mistletoe, and you look up to signal it. You can see the realization in his eyes as his blue eyes come back to meet yours. And God, it’s so easy to pull him close and press your lips to his. 

It’s never been easier to wrap your arms around his neck and press into him, and relish in him pressing back. And it’s so easy to jump into his arms, wrap your legs around his torso and relish in the feel of his hand cupping your ass. 

One moves away to close the door, and you hear the familiar click as it locks. Your heart hammers in your chest, and everything is forgotten as you tell him where your bedroom is. 

To say the least, it’s a way better Christmas Party than the one that had been four years ago. 


	15. Tom Hiddleston

Little goes through Tom’s mind when he wakes. Surprise catches him at the feel of someone lying in his arms, and more surprise at the unfamiliar room he’s in. Tom looks down to see who’s cuddling into him, whose fanning breath spreads across his chest. 

His breath gets punched out of him at the sight of Y/N. Her hair tangled, arm draped over his bare torso, and heavy breathing mixing with the hammering of his heart. 

_ Oh, God. He didn’t…? _

But Tom knows he did. He didn’t drink. The events of the previous night flashes through his mind. How she’d asked if he could drive her home, how she’d needed help to get inside, how he’d watched her fiddle with her keys before getting open the door. He remembers the way his chest beat so rapidly, waiting for that inevitable goodbye that was doomed to come.

Everything stopped working inside of him when she pulled him into her doorway, when she tugged at his tie and made the motion to look up. Adrenaline had coursed through his body when his lips met hers. The five years of pining and trying to get over the painful breaking of his heart had been swept to the side. When she’d deepened the kiss with her arms wrapped around his neck and a jump before her legs were wrapped around his waist and his hand had come to cup her ass and they’d moved to the bedroom, lips still locked together, had been the most intense moment he’d ever experienced. 

The picture he saved in his mind of her naked body in bed pops up and Tom has to shake away the thought. 

This isn’t happening. Y/N had been drunk. She is with Chris. It was a mistake, clearly. A drunken one. 

And he’d made the mistake of indulging. 

It takes him only a second to make up his mind. He does his best to peel himself away from her, gaze flickering to her every moment just to make sure she doesn’t wake up. Boxers on, trousers on, shirt wrongly buttoned, a quick grasp of socks and jacket, and he double checks his wallet and phone are still there, and knowing he has his belongings, he soundlessly slips out the door. 

Only a week left before Christmas break. Only a week where things might be slightly awkward between the two of them. Only a week to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do now. 

This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen. 

\---

Awkwardness is the least of Tom’s worries, apparently. 

When he makes it to the classroom before class on Tuesday (and mind you, he hasn’t seen Y/N since before they fell asleep Saturday evening), he’s met with the pleasurable yet  _ very _ frightening bright smile Y/N sends him. 

“Hey,” she says, eyes lighting up with a passion Tom hasn’t ever seen before. “We haven’t talked that much lately, but I thought we had some time now.” She hands him a paper. “I wanted to talk about the upcoming exam, and how to best prepare them to get the best possible grades.”

Tom takes the paper she hands, and sees a list of suggestions. The title reads  _ Tips To Get The Best Exam Results _ . He nods slightly. “Sure, sounds good.” His voice sounds weird to his ears, lighter than normal. He coughs slightly, and tries again. “Did you have anything specific in mind that we should focus on?”

_ Nope, still no good _ . 

But if Y/N noticed, she doesn’t say anything, the smile still brightly lighting up her face. “Just thought we could go off the list, really. Something I threw together on Sunday. Already had a rough draft, but you know, can’t stop working.” She tips her head a little, almost a shrug but not really one. 

He’s tempted to ask her; if he did something wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her apartment? Maybe they should talk about it? 

Tom looks down to check his watch. Still fifteen minutes until any students are supposed to make an appearance. That’s more than enough time to talk about the incident, more than enough, only how does he start―

“Tom?” Y/N waves a hand in front of his face, her own searching for a response. 

He shakes his head. “Sorry, what?” 

“Just asked if there was anything you thought I’d missed. I want your input.” 

There’s something so completely foreign to that sentence that Tom freezes. Even if they were making progress with how well they got along, he’d never actually thought she’d willingly ask for his input. Especially not after he left her apartment after a ( great ) round of sex and hasn’t actually talked to her since―as far as he knows, most people don’t like that. 

However, he has to pull himself out of his head. So he shakes his head (no, he has not read the list) and just gives her a weak smile. “I’m sorry, I’m not really present today.” 

“That’s okay,” she says, smile back on her face, though more sweet and less bright. Almost bordering on saccharine. “Can’t always be present, can we? I bet you had a pretty rough Sunday, too. Might not have had that good a Monday either?”

Tom raises a brow. “Rough Sunday? Were you very hungover?”  _ Yes, he avoids the questions. He  _ needs _ to know if there’s a possibility she doesn’t remember.  _ Of course, that would only make matters worse because he would feel compelled to tell her. 

Y/N scrunches her nose a little. “Not that much. I didn’t drink a lot, with the exceptions of the shots I took, but honestly, without them I’d never dared to kiss you either, so… kinda thankful.” And as she talks, her demeanor changes. Tom starts to wonder if she wasn’t being passive aggressive all this time with her sweet voice and big smile. 

“You… uhm.” Tom’s words don’t work. Or maybe they don’t exist. 

“Yeah, great night, actually. You know, other than you walking out on me, but I can’t blame you.” She shrugs. There’s nothing close to hurt in her voice, nothing close to anger either, really. 

Tom has to swallow, because he feels like there’s something more she wants to say and he’s not sure the tug at his heart can take it if she does. Whether that’s a bold reveal that she does, in fact, not like him, in any way, or if it is that she likes him. But what if she likes him only sexually? Will he indulge? 

“You know?” she says and takes a step closer to him. “We got about ten minutes. Or more, if we lock the door.” A finger comes up to drag down a little of the shirt he wears, exposing some of his chest. She doesn’t say the last words, but Tom can hear them. 

His heart beats rapidly in his chest. Her fingers dance with flames as they graze across and trace their way to his chin. A firm hand takes hold of it, steadying his gaze into hers and he’s not sure he can say no when she licks her lips in that way. 

_ God, his pants are tight _ . 

When he lets her tug him down to ghost her lips over his, he knows he’s screwed. He’s breaking his own heart, breaking the pieces he thought were mending slowly but surely, breaking the trust he put into himself to be strong enough to resist the temptation. 

But when Y/N’s lips graze past and connect with his neck, he can’t control the impulse that makes his hands fly to her hips to pull her flush against him. His hands graze the lining of her shirt, and he knows they don’t have time for teasing or foreplay or anything Tom really enjoys. 

He doesn’t care. He gives in, succumbing to the desire that resides deep within him. If the only way Tom can be close to Y/N is by being a fuck buddy, he couldn’t care less. At least he gets to be with her.

\---

By now, Tom would be home. He’d be with Bobby, cradling the dog into him to gain the cuddles he so desperately needed but didn’t get from the person he most wanted. 

Yet, Tom isn’t home. He’s still at the office, slumped down in his too small couch with its too lumpy cushions and too hard armrests. It was the first thing he’d done when he got back after the Creative Writing class. Mostly because he needed time to think, but he can’t think because all that’s on it is how  _ good _ those ten minutes before class started had been. 

_ God knows he loves foreplay, but God knows they hadn’t needed it _ . 

It’s not like  _ that _ isn’t what he wanted to think about, it’s just that he can’t stop thinking about  _ how _ it felt, instead of thinking about what this means for him. For  _ them _ . For Y/N: His mind should be travelling through all the consequences of such a relationship. Or his mind shouldn’t only be focusing on the positive consequences. 

He should focus on how this might rupture the steady going of an actual friendship (with the hopeful something more), but instead he can’t stop thinking about the feelings that rushed through him when Y/N’s lips had press to  _ that _ spot on his neck. He can’t stop thinking about the throbbing in his abdomen, the swirl of hurt and guilt and arousal deep within his gut, the adrenaline that rushed through his body knowing  _ she wanted him _ . 

However, the one thought (that’s a mixture of positive and negative) he can’t let go, is that she avoided kissing him. She avoided pressing her lips to his, despite the obvious passion that had come from it on Saturday. She almost avoided his face entirely (the slight hint of a red mark on his neck―that one of their students had pointed out over the course of the class―isn’t necessarily unwanted). 

But that  _ feeling _ , that deep, deep  _ longing _ that had accompanied the kiss on Saturday (no matter if it was prompted by alcohol), he missed that. He  _ wanted _ it. He still wants it. He wants all of it. More than just friends with benefits, more than a casual relationship, more than… He isn’t even sure exactly what it is they do have. 

Maybe they have something that can lead somewhere? Maybe they have something that won’t continue? Maybe they have something― 

Tom’s train of thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. He scrambles to sit upright on the couch (though he nearly falls off). And, with some sense of dignity still left, he says, “come in.”

The door opens agonizingly slowly. Tom has a silent wish of it being Y/N wanting something more, but he also has a huge wish it’s Benedict and that he can talk to his best friend about the problem that is eating away at him. 

And thank God, his prayers are answered. Benedict fully steps into the room and gives Tom a quick once up. He raises a brow and smirks slightly. “And what did I walk in on?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Tom shakes his head. “No, there is something. You have time to talk or did you just come here for a favor?” 

Benedict closes the door and sits down in the chair at his side of the desk. He turns it to face Tom and leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “I was coming in here for something else, but you look like you need to talk more. What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N.” 

“Of course it is. Did something happen Saturday?” Benedict raises a brow. 

Tom nods, slowly. “We… uhh, I don’t know how to put this, but… we, uhmm…” He takes a deep breath, unsure of how to say the words, unsure of Benedict’s reaction. “We slept together.” 

The man’s eyes go wide, and a frown comes through on his face. “Like in the same bed, or the… you know?” 

“We had sex, and then fell asleep afterward. Why would we just sleep in the same bed?” Tom shakes his head at his best friends. 

“I don’t know. Maybe there was something else.” He shrugs. “But that can’t be everything.” 

Tom presses his lips together. He drapes a hand across his face, a sigh accompanying the gesture. “We did it again. I guess you could call it a ‘quicky’. In the classroom. Before our students came in.”

“Is that the reason for the red mark on your neck?” 

“Yes.”

When Tom looks up to meet Benedict’s gaze, it feels almost like the older man is mocking him. The teasing, and halfway disappointed, look on Benedict's face is tantalizing. 

“She or you initiate?”

“Her. Both times.” 

“But the first she was drunk?” 

Tom nods. “She had a mistletoe in her doorway. I guess it helped when I followed her up to her flat, seeing as she couldn’t really walk.”

Benedict chuckles. “Are you going to keep it up?” 

A sigh falls from Tom’s lips. “I don’t know. Should I?”

“Is it worth it?” 

_ Is it worth it? _ Is it worth the ache in his heart when she looks at him as if he holds everything she desires but not the part he wants her to desire? Is it worth the stab in his gut when her lips don’t connect with his? Is it worth the scorching heat that comes off of her fingers grazing his skin, of her hands studying his chest? Is it worth his heart leaping into his throat because she feels so close yet so far away? Is it worth it, if his heart will only break past redemption in an effort to be close to her even if it’s not in the way he wants?

“I don’t know.” Tom shakes his head. “What if it’s the only way? What if that’s my only option to be close to her? What if I lose everything if I stop it?”

Benedict smiles, but whatever is really on his mind, he doesn’t say. “Tom, be real. Is it worth it?”

He takes a deep breath, unsure of his answer. Unsure until his lips part and the words carry around the room. 

“ _ Yes. _ ”


End file.
